<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>of flâneurs and epistemophiles by allandnothing</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27508975">of flâneurs and epistemophiles</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/allandnothing/pseuds/allandnothing'>allandnothing</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast), Welcome to Night Vale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Asexual Character, I just love that he’s like me and find every little excuse to point it out, I mean Jon’s asexuality isn’t plot relevant, Jon's POV, M/M, Pining, Trans Character, again not plot relevant, no beta we die like archival assistants and radio interns, pre-relationship jonmartin, set in s4 of tma and s3 of wtnv, very vague science</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-08 03:48:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27508975</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/allandnothing/pseuds/allandnothing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos is a properly weird person. He’s overly chatty, has apparently been conditioned into being wary of libraries and writing utensils of all things, he is still somehow leaving little trails of sand wherever he goes when he wanders the archives, and just the other morning he described the sunset as ‘quiet, but beautiful’. But still, seeing him absently thumbing a screwdriver in his hand, a faraway look on his face as he mumbles something about regrets and missing a person-shaped part of his heart, Jon can oddly relate.</p><p>Funny how life is sometimes.</p><p> </p><p>Jon is having a normal morning- as normal as mornings can be when you’re employed by an eldritch manifestation of fear itself- when a man comes stumbling out of a door that definitely hadn’t been there a second before. Things only get weirder from there.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale) &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale) &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Carlos/Cecil Palmer, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>119</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>460</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is deeply self-indulgent, and unashamedly so. I know everyone and their grandma has written a crossover like this one but listen, I’ve had a rough few months and needed to treat myself in some way, and with tma becoming my recent hyperfixation and wtnv making an unexpected comeback in my heart this cute little thing was the only logical conclusion</p><p>I hope you’ll like reading it. I surely loved writing it</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">He’s busy stirring his tea with a mournful expression that is definitely <em>not</em> a pout when he hears the tell-tale <em>click</em> of a tape recorder turning itself on, somewhere around the mess on his desk. A year ago or two that would have been enough to make him alert, to make him stand up to attention and face whatever had triggered the apparently omnipresent recorders enough to make them decide something worth Knowing was about to happen, but now, wary, tired, with a cup of tea he pointedly tries not to think too much about, Jon simply sighs, keeping his focus on the task at hand.</p><p class="p1">“You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you?” he hums, the same way one would do with a particularly stubborn cat who has been told time and time again to behave. He takes a sip, spitefully loudly just in case the recording somehow makes it back to either Lukas or Elias, and tries not to think about how much he misses Martin’s tea, “I’ve been here all morning but it’s only when I go and grab myself a cuppa that you decide it’s showtime? Bit inconsiderate, don’t you think?”</p><p class="p1">The recorder, little bastard that it is, does not dignify him with an answer. He takes another sip.</p><p class="p1">Despite himself, he waits in anticipation for whatever is about to happen. Of course he does. He might try to not wallow too much in it, but there’s no denying who he is now, <em>what</em> he is, and the nagging need to Know and Seek has only grown stronger lately. So he just sits, cradling a sadly subpar cup of tea, and waits. Hopefully, it’s not going to be another pair of murderous Hunt avatars, though knowing his luck he doubts it’s going to be anything too pleasant.</p><p class="p1">After what feels like years but that he knows are just barely thirty seconds, familiar footsteps approach from the corridor, soft and naturally stealthy, and he relaxes, leaning back in his chair with a little breath of relief. Sure enough, the door opens without a knock, and Daisy’s blonde head pops in from behind it.</p><p class="p1">“Basira and I are going out for lunch later, are you coming?” she asks without preambles, leaning against the doorframe in a way that is meant to be casual, but that Jon can clearly see is done out of tiredness. Her eyes, shining slightly in the dark office, immediately find the tape recorder humming away on the desk, and she smiles a little sardonic grin.</p><p class="p1">He doesn’t even pretend to ponder it, and simply nods behind his mug, “You’re missing a third wheel now that Melanie resigned?” he almost regrets saying it, trying to make light of something as traumatic as that, but thankfully Daisy only rolls her eyes. Neither of them mentions the fact that even with Jon there one person would still be missing, burrowed in his office away from everyone and everything, and Jon silently thanks her for not bringing it up, “Sure. I’ll see you later.”</p><p class="p1">Daisy nods once, and then she’s gone, closing the door behind her and walking off towards whatever it is she does to keep herself busy these days. Curiously enough, the tape recorder doesn’t click off with her retreat, and Jon does look at it now, frowning. If that wasn’t what it had turned itself on for, then…</p><p class="p1">Something catches his eyes on his left, right next to his desk, and the hairs on the back of his arms stand up before he even has a chance to properly take in what he’s seeing. </p><p class="p1">There’s a door where until a second ago there had only been a bare wall. It's old, looks like it's made of oak, and he quietly settles his cup on the desk as he keeps his eyes on it like he would with a potentially dangerous animal. His first instinct is to relax back into the chair, knowing that that is probably just Helen making some questionable interior design choices, for whatever reason, but this door has nothing of the psychedelic features that would suggest it belongs to the Spiral. He has just enough time to ponder where exactly his life has gone wrong for him to be more unsettled by the door’s colour rather than its actual unexplained appearance in his office before the damned thing suddenly swings open, strong enough to slap against the wall, and a figure stumbles out of it in a confusing blur.</p><p class="p1">Jon, now on his feet, his tea sloshed over his desk in his surprise and his hands reaching for something, <em>anything</em> that might serve as a weapon, can’t do anything but watch as the figure wrestles with the door for a moment, trying to close it against the strong wind that is blowing out of it, spreading sand- <em>is that sand?</em>- all over the floor, until they finally manage to with a huff, leaning back on it as if trying to keep it closed with their weight. With only a desk between them, Jon can clearly see that it’s man, wearing what appears to be a lab coat, though it looks worn out at the hems, as if ruined by some properly terrible weather, and his dark hair is in disarray over his face. Nonsensically, the knowledge that that hair is one of his most defining features settles itself over Jon with a confused frown, and he shifts, enough to attract the man’s attention. With his chest heaving with laboured breaths, he smiles a fairly beautiful smile, despite his current predicament, and pushes himself off the door.</p><p class="p1">“Hey, um, sorry about the intrusion,” he stumbles over his words, slurring them, evidently unaware of Jon’s firm grip on his make-shift weapon- a stapler, for the matter, because his self-preservation died the moment he was born, apparently- or his look of horrified concern. He shifts on his feet, spreading the sand even further into the office, and tries to take a step forward, “Are you- would you- do you know if- oh dear.”</p><p class="p1">And without as much as a warning, the man falls on the floor, face-first in the pile of sand he has brought in with him, none of his limbs even pretending to try and catch him, leaving Jon with a stapler in his hand, an office with enough sand to make a castle, and a passed out stranger in the middle of it.</p><p class="p1">The door flickers in and out of existence for a moment, before it completely disappears into thin air, leaving just an average wall in its wake, and the tape recorder clicks off, apparently happy with itself.</p><p class="p1">What the fuck just happened?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">It takes a small, quiet moment of self-reflection, in which Jon wonders what has become of his life and why he’s so unfortunate to be the protagonist of it, before his instinct kicks in and he scrambles for the telephone, dialling Basira’s number before he’s even aware of it, keeping his eyes on the mysterious stranger as he goes. He’s still laying down face-first in the pile of sand he has brought along with him, the rise of his back the only indication that he’s still alive, and Jon briefly ponders if he should roll him on his back so that he doesn’t inhale any sand, and would it even be safe to get close enough to do that? Should he even care that he doesn’t suffocate to death? Would it be good if he did?</p><p class="p1">Thankfully, his train of thoughts is interrupted by Basira’s deadpan voice coming from the other side of the line, keeping him from doing anything stupid, as it seems to be his usual nowadays.</p><p class="p1">“What.” </p><p class="p1">He would take offence in her curt tone, or maybe even flinch at having somehow already angered her, but as things are his mind is otherwise preoccupied, so he just shifts the phone on his other shoulder, quietly shuffling around the desk so that he’s further away from the passed-out man, though still keeping an eye on him, “Er, would you mind coming down here for a moment?” he cranes his neck, not sure what he expects to see, before rolling back on his heels, trying not to sound too panicked, “We, uh, we have an unexpected guest.”</p><p class="p1">A pause, in which nothing can be heard. And then, a quiet but unmistakable “shit”, followed by what sounds like Basira throwing on the floor all of the paperwork and books usually stacked on the desk- or at the very least something that would make a similar noise- before she’s hanging up, leaving Jon alone once again.</p><p class="p1">He nods to himself, settling the phone back in its nook with calculated precision, as if terrified that even a minimal noise might alert the stranger, and curls his arms around himself. He should probably do something now that the man is still unconscious. As passed out as he is it's hard to tell, but he might be dangerous, and this might be his only advantage he'll get on him. Maybe he could restrain him, so that he won’t have a chance to fight back once he comes back to the land of the living, but something inside him- Something, actually, with a capital letter- tells him that that won’t be necessary. He tries not to Know things, especially when it’s things that concern living people he might have a very real chance of traumatizing forever, so he tries to push the nagging feeling away, although not enough to not step slightly forward, longing to inspect the newcomer like a particularly nosey house cat.</p><p class="p1">He has no idea where that analogy came from but he’ll gladly take it over any eldritch horror he has found himself associated with lately.</p><p class="p1">He has just rounded the corner, coming close enough to the still figure that he could easily reach out to touch him if he really hated himself enough to try, when the door bursts open, and Basira properly jumps into the room, gun drawn out and ready, like a character in a police tv show. Having both heard and known she was getting close, Jon doesn’t startle, and just keeps on looking down at the man.</p><p class="p1">“What is it? What’s happening?” Basira asks, tense, taking a couple more steps into the dimly lit office before coming to a stop with a frown, gun wavering in her grasp, “Is that… sand?”</p><p class="p1">“It would seem so,” Jon nods, tentatively touching said sand with the tip of his toe, as if terrified it might bite. Yep. Feels like sand. Probably sand, “He… he brought it with him when he came through the door.”</p><p class="p1">He gestures vaguely at the wall, not even bothering to explain further. Basira already seems to be on the same page as him, “Do you think Helen has something to do with it?”</p><p class="p1">Jon sighs, rubbing his hands over his arms, and looks up to meet Basira’s eyes. She doesn’t look particularly concerned, rather just confused, and maybe even partially annoyed, for which he’s thankful. If he can’t feel confident in himself he can at least draw confidence from her unwavering attitude, “I don’t know, but I doubt we’ll get any answers out of him as long as he’s passed out.”</p><p class="p1">The two of them look down at the man, as if expecting him to jump back up again like a jack-in-the-box and attack them, in the name of whichever Entity it is that he serves. A couple of seconds pass and nothing happens. The stranger keeps on breathing.</p><p class="p1">Basira sighs, finally lowering her gun, “I’ll get Daisy.”</p>
<hr/><p>Manoeuvring the man out of the office and into the backroom onto Jon’s old cot turns out to be a much more complex matter than anticipated. The stranger is fairly thin, and although he had been otherwise occupied during the few seconds Jon had been face to face with him, he hadn’t looked particularly tall, probably only a few inches taller than Jon himself- a fact that is confirmed now as he approaches the figure with more confidence, backed by two ex-cops- but manhandling a dead weight from one room to another still isn’t simple.</p><p class="p1">Jon isn’t exactly a weight lifter, and out of all the powers he has been begrudgingly gifted with enhanced strength doesn't seem to be in the list, and Daisy, too, has been slowly growing scrawnier by the day, but with the help of Basira they somehow manage it. </p><p class="p1">By ‘somehow manage it’ he means that he unhelpfully grabbed the stranger’s legs and kept them as high up as his arms allowed him to as the two women did most of the work, but that’s hardly the point. He has library training, moving unconscious bodies isn’t exactly his area of expertise.</p><p class="p1">Still, they all huff in relief once the man is settled on the cot, ignoring the way his lab coat is now all crumpled and his arm is bent into what must be a painfully uncomfortable position. Jon has just enough time to sigh at the unexpected physical effort before Daisy moves closer to the man, ignoring her own laboured breathing, and does quick work of his wrist.</p><p class="p1">“Are you <em>handcuffing him</em>?” he asks, disbelieving, as the click of the handcuffs confirms his suspicions. Daisy just shrugs, grabbing onto the metal frame of the cot and clicking the other end of the handcuff around it. She gives the frame a vigorous wriggle, testing that it won't budge, and then nods in self-satisfaction.</p><p class="p1">“It’s merely precautional,” she says as a way of justification, standing back up from where she had been crouching. Her face is concerningly pale after the bare minimum physical exercise, but Jon tries not to think about it, about how the Hunt has pretty much sent her into withdrawal. Rather, he decides to focus on the matter at hand, turning back to the still unconscious man, “You said he just showed up in your office, who knows what his deal is.”</p><p class="p1">For a moment, they all just look at him and take everything in. He isn’t exactly sure what he expects- for something to click in their brains? For him to connect the man in front of him to one of the many men he has heard tales and recorded statements of? It would make sense, he guesses, it wouldn’t be the first time a familiar face decided to make an appearance- the memory of Julia and Trevor’s delightful visit is still fresh in his mind- but no such thing happens.</p><p class="p1">The man is just… a man. Dishevelled lab coat aside- which would suggest he’s some sort of doctor, or possibly a scientist- he looks utterly normal while unconscious. As a matter of fact, the more Jon looks at him, the more he has the nagging feeling that they actually don’t look that much different, the two of them.</p><p class="p1">It isn’t a sort of doppelgänger moment, of that he is sure, but even he has enough awareness of his own physical form to admit that there are some similarities to be found, for sure. The stranger’s hair, too, is displaying some smattering of grey, though it takes form as a neat and fairly classy greying of the temples, rather than the streaks of salt and pepper Jon has found himself stuck with since his mid-20s, and upon closer inspection, he can see grains of sand stuck in it, no doubt the same one he has so theatrically shown up with. His skin is dark, though slightly lighter than his own, and devoid of any scar much unlike Jon, and the only main difference between the two of them seems to be that, unlike him, the man looks like he actually eats regularly. All in all, much to his surprise, Jon finds himself thinking that the man is beautiful.</p><p class="p1">He waves away the thought as soon as it presents itself to him with a slight shake of his head. He has never really <em>gotten</em> what it means to be attractive, the concept has always seemed foreign to him, something he could never quite grasp, so he has always been stuck dealing with whatever he could gather and assume from others, or whatever was presented to him as a matter of fact. This, too, seems to be simply a fact. He doesn’t actively find the man beautiful, he just Knows that he is. He dismisses the thought, assuming it's probably relevant to the man’s life, in some capacity, if the Eye has found it peculiar enough to point it out, but it really isn’t the time for it. The guy is unconscious. Avatar of an ungodly eldritch manifestation of fear or not, staring at him while he’s passed out is just messed up.</p><p class="p1">“Are we all just staring at him like a bunch of creeps?” Daisy breathes next to him, evidently coming to the same conclusion at the same moment.</p><p class="p1">They all shift on their feet, then immediately settle their eyes on something else in the room. Daisy on the ceiling. Basira on the handcuffs. Jon on a dark smudge on the wall he suddenly finds to be the most interesting sight in existence. Then Daisy moves to the shelving unit in the corner of the room, Basira to the opaque window, and Jon to his own shoes.</p><p class="p1"><em>"</em>This is stupid," he announces after a few moments, giving up on the pretend to look back at the cot. Sure enough, Daisy and Basira’s gazes turn towards the unconscious figure at the exact same time, and they're back at square one.</p><p class="p1">A pause of reflection. The man remains unconscious. It's quiet enough that he can hear electricity running through the opposite wall. It's unnerving.</p><p class="p1">“So… Helen?” he tries, having come to no other more helpful conclusion. </p><p class="p1">“I don’t know,” Basira murmurs, raising a hand to her chin pensively. Her tone is as impassible as always, as if this isn’t anything peculiar or out of the ordinary, and Jon finds it oddly comforting, “She has been plenty useful lately. I know we shouldn’t trust anyone, but it's true… Also if she had any victim to take I doubt she’d just spit them out for us to find.”</p><p class="p1">“Also what’s up with the sand?” Daisy adds, motioning to the smatterings of the thing all over the cot. They’re never going to get rid of it completely, he’s sure, “Since when does Helen have sand in her corridors?”</p><p class="p1">Jon opens his mouth to reply and add another inconclusive remark- could Helen have picked her victim near a beach? Would it even make sense for the man to be wearing a lab coat at the beach? Is he even a victim or just another avatar they’ll be forced to deal with?- when the man of the hour himself groans over the cot, making all three of them jump back in surprise.</p><p class="p1">Basira is the first to recover, already reaching for her gun, eyes narrowed in anticipation, while Daisy steps slightly in front of Jon on autopilot as if wanting to protect him, something that warms him despite the situation. The man merely rolls over the cot, reaching a hand up to his head with a wince. The hand, unfortunately, is the one Daisy handcuffed to the bed, so the man blinks his eyes open, confused. After a moment where he just squints at the bright lights of the room he settles his eyes on them, and he breathes out a soft ‘oh’ of surprise, eyes moving between the three of them non stop, as if unsure who to settle on.</p><p class="p1">“Right,” he speaks, his voice hoarse before he clears it with a cough. He swings his legs off the cot and onto the floor, making them take another half a step backwards and Basira grip her gun a little tighter, and his eyes widen like someone who just accidentally startled a wild animal, “Right. Uh, hello?”</p><p class="p1">He doesn’t move more than that, simply sitting down and alternating between looking at them in surprise and at his handcuffed hand in confusion, and all in all, Jon thinks that if this is some avatar trying to trick them into believing he’s just some random guy they’re doing a really good job.</p><p class="p1">“Hi,” he replies, dryly, “Would you be able to tell how you got here?”</p><p class="p1">It’s a fairly loaded sentence, unnecessarily verbose, but it’s the only way he knows to speak and be sure not to accidentally compel the stranger into telling him against his will. Daisy and Basira are still just looking at him, most likely pondering their next move, and he doesn't particularly plan on traumatizing a possibly innocent man.</p><p class="p1">“The oak door, right?” he scratches the back of his head with his free hand, probably trying to piece together how he got from passing out on the floor to tied up to a bed, “I saw it in the distance in the desert and ran for it, I think I got overheated on the way there and passed out,” he shakes his head, before sitting a bit straighter on the cot, “Sorry, where am I?”</p><p class="p1">“London,” Basira replies before Jon can. She shoots him a meaningful glance as a way of explaining her reluctance in telling the man exactly <em>where</em> he is, and he just nods, letting her take the lead, “Where did you-”</p><p class="p1">“London?” the man parrots, his eyes widening. He runs a hand through his hair, tousling it up and making little grains of sand rain down from it on the cot, looking way too excited for someone who is pretty much being held captive against his will, “Oh, this is <em>interesting</em>! I had assumed the ability of the doors to connect our world to the Otherworld was space-bound, but <em>London</em>? Oh, I need to run some tests, this is exciting, scientifically speaking this is a totally unexpected breakthrough, I-“</p><p class="p1">He pauses, his mouth closing with a loud click as he looks at the three of them, still staring at him in disbelief. With a small self-conscious smile, he raises his handcuffed hand, doing a little wave with it. The metal jingles with the motion, “Carlos. I’m Carlos,” he doesn’t seem to be remotely intimidated by his current predicament, or by the fact that Basira is still wielding a gun. He looks mildly inconvenienced at worst, and Jon idly wonders what kind of life this man leads for this to be just another regular day for him, before realizing, <em>ah, right. I am also exactly like that</em>.</p><p class="p1">“Carlos,” Daisy deadpans, looking already one hundred per cent done with the situation, “And you are-“</p><p class="p1">“A scientist,” Carlos replies, happily, as if that would explain even half of it.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, yes, that’s not what I-“ Daisy sighs, running a hand over her still pale face, and she looks pained enough to make Jon step slightly forward and take the lead of this impromptu interrogation they got going.</p><p class="p1">“Can you tell me where you came from? Who sent you?” </p><p class="p1">“Well, the matter of who sent me is too complex to truly get into,” he chuckles, and Jon is hit with the realization that there is no way this guy is an agent of an eldritch fear god. He doesn’t even need to Know it, he just can tell by that chuckle alone, “Now, <em>that</em> would be a long story.”</p><p class="p1">“Sorry, how old are you?” Basira decides to derail the conversation even more- as if there was some sort of track they were even on to begin with- and Daisy groans at it, “You sound much younger than you look.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, this isn’t my original voice,” Carlos easily replies, shrugging, and casually avoiding answering the actual question.</p><p class="p1">Daisy raises her head from where she had burrowed it in her hands, no doubt nursing a building headache, just in time for both her and Jon to dumbly ask, “What?”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, I had to replace my vocal cords a while ago,” Carlos points at his own throat as if anything he’s saying is supposed to make any sort of sense, and Jon thinks that maybe he was too quick to absolve him of his suspicions, “You know how it is, throat spiders.”</p><p class="p1">He shrugs once again, in an 'oh well, what can you do' kind of way. </p><p class="p1">There is a moment of silence as none of them knows, as a matter of fact, how it is. Then, they all start speaking at once.</p><p class="p1">“Throat spiders? <em>What</em>?”</p><p class="p1">“Is that a euphemism for the Web or-“</p><p class="p1">“Did you just say you <em>replaced</em> you local cords?”</p><p class="p1">“As in, actual spiders? You get spiders in your throat? How would that even-“</p><p class="p1">“You still didn’t tell me how old you are, you know-“</p><p class="p1">“Okay!” Jon raises his hands, trying to placate his coworkers- or unfortunate companions of misfortunes, it depends on who you’re asking- and taking a deep breath. He doesn’t know exactly what to make of Carlos, but one thing is certain, the more he speaks the more confused he gets, “Can we all focus back on the issue at hand, please? Namely, the fact that you manifested in my office out of nowhere.”</p><p class="p1">Carlos looks sheepish at that, and he scratches the back of his neck once again, “Yeah, sorry about that. I told you, I didn’t mean to barge in like that, but it’s not like I had time to actually ponder it.”</p><p class="p1">“That’s- that’s not the point,” Jon shakes his head, already feeling a headache building behind his eyes. The appearance of the man had interrupted his normal morning routine, and he had meant to read another statement before lunch. Now he’s working on an empty stomach in more than one way, “How did the- were you- are you-“</p><p class="p1">He groans, unable to formulate the sentence in a way that isn’t a question, but thankfully Daisy seems to understand his lexical struggle and takes it from there, “You said you ran for the door, were you trapped by someone within it?”</p><p class="p1">“I wouldn’t say <em>trapped</em>,” Carlos frowns, once again the opposite of helpful, “I mean, technically yes, I am trapped. If we look at semantics, on a scientific point of view, I found myself in the Desert Otherworld not by will, and I still haven’t figured out a way to leave it, which would make me trapped within it, but I mean, there could be worse places to get stuck into. For example-“</p><p class="p1">“Wait wait wait, Desert Otherworld?” Basira jumps in the brief pause Carlos makes to take in a breath mid-ramble, and Jon is silently grateful for that. The more Carlos speaks the more questions appear in his mind, and he's still fairly sure he doesn't deserve any answer to be coerced out of him, “I thought- weren’t you in a corridor? Trapped by Helen?”</p><p class="p1">A pause, in which Carlos just blinks, “Helen… Hunt?”</p><p class="p1">“What? No-“</p><p class="p1">“I wasn’t trapped in any corridor,” Carlos continues, unaware or uncaring of their growing frustration. He's still sitting down, his handcuffed hand keeping him tied against the cot, but he's starting to look fidgety, nervous, “The door was just a connection between Night Vale and the Otherworld, and it got me stuck in the latter. When I saw it again today I thought it would lead me back to my reality, but here I am instead.”</p><p class="p1">Jon takes in a breath with the rush of <em>need to know</em> he is suddenly overcome with at the mention of that name. Night Vale. </p><p class="p1">He has never heard of it before- Carlos definitely doesn’t sound British, so it’s no big surprise- but something within him says he should do everything in his power to find out more about it. Before he can, though, Carlos speaks again, reaching into his lab coat’s pocket, which he is extremely grateful for- the need had been so strong he probably would have not been able to stop himself from asking, “And with all due respect, I’d very much like to return to Night Vale as soon as possible, so I’m afraid I won’t stick around for long here.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, that’s not really up to you, is it?” Basira plainly points out, pointing to the handcuffs with a sharp expression, but Carlos doesn’t even acknowledge her, too busy with his phone.</p><p class="p1">“I mean, what more do you need to hear from him?” Daisy points out, her posture much more relaxed than before, as if her body language is already considering the matter fully archived, “He seems honest, and unless you plan on compelling him-“</p><p class="p1">“I do <em>not</em>,” Jon shots back. He would feel uncomfortable talking about someone when they are standing there the whole time, but Carlos’s evident disinterest in their conversation allows him to face the two women more fully, “I- I think he’s telling the truth. I have no idea what happened to him or how he ended up here or what <em>Night Vale</em> is, and I don’t particularly trust myself enough to ask about it, but I do believe he’s just a victim of- whatever it is that caused all of it.”</p><p class="p1">Basira doesn’t seem happy with that explanation, and once again tries to talk over him, but she’s interrupted by the quietest, most tentative voice coming from the cot.</p><p class="p1">“My phone is dead.”</p><p class="p1">Carlos’s voice is so fragile they all turn back towards him to find him looking down at the thing in question, held between trembling hands. He isn’t looking back, just staring at his phone- an old model too, although Jon isn’t exactly in the best position to judge- with an indiscernible look, and Jon suddenly feels like he's walking on eggshells, “Uh, is that- do you need-“</p><p class="p1">He trails off, unsure of how to end the sentence, but Carlos barely pays him any attention. His wide eyes are focused on the screen in front of him, the little battery sign blinking up at him requesting to be charged, and when he finally looks up Jon is taken aback by the pure <em>rawness</em> of his expression. He looks utterly shaken.</p><p class="p1">“I-“ his voice cracks, and he half-heartedly tries to clear it. His eyes are glistening with tears, so much so that even Basira, stone-faced and cold-hearted as she may seem, hesitates at the sight of him. If this is some kind of trick, an avatar trying to fool them into trusting and helping him, he’s doing a damn good job at it, “I thought this was just another reality, another parallel I needed to get out of once more, but-“ he looks down again at the phone, now clutched between his hands, and takes into a shaky breath, “But my phone hasn’t needed to be charged for almost a year, unaffected by the passage of time, so this can only mean one thing-“</p><p class="p1">Carlos looks up at them then, and Jon feels a pang of unexpected hurt for this stranger at the sight of his teary eyes. He manages a small, wobbly smile, and just like that, as easy as that, all of Jon’s resolve and suspicions crumble, and he already knows he will try to do anything to help Carlos, “I’m home.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">It doesn’t take much more to convince them of Carlos’s innocence. They share a look between themselves, confused and slightly awkward as Carlos keeps on staring down at his phone, teary-eyed, before nodding in silent agreement. Whatever his deal is, the man definitely is a victim of it. Jon has been in too many proverbial pickles to safely say he trusts his own judgment, but Carlos, breath shaky and lips trembling as he marvels at his uncharged phone, simply looks too <em>human</em> to be anything but.</p>
<p class="p1">Nodding along, Daisy leans down, making quick work of the handcuffs and removing them, and like a spring being suddenly released Carlos bolts up, making all three of them jump in surprise, before he’s off pacing around the room, muttering to himself the whole way.</p>
<p class="p1">“This changes things completely, if the doors can lead out of Night Vale but within the same reality would that imply the existence of multiple realities and Otherworlds for each door and location?” Jon hears him ramble, though he has given up on trying to make sense of anything that comes out of his mouth the moment he first heard him speak, and his brain prefers to just focus on two particular words he spoke, <em>Night Vale</em>, amplifying them to him like it usually would with annoyingly catchy songs or something Martin said- <em>which is not the point right now, at all</em>, “But if that’s so would that mean that the Desert Otherworld extends all the way across continents? Did I walk the actual distance between Night Vale and London, only on a parallel?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Should we… Should we stop him?” Basira asks next to him, quietly, as if unsure whether she should make Carlos aware of their presence or not. The man himself is now running a shaky hand through his hair, pulling a notebook out of his threadbare lab coat’s pocket and furiously writing on it, and he looks completely the part of the mad scientist he dresses like.</p>
<p class="p1">“Honestly, I don’t know,” he admits, his eyes not leaving the frantic pacing of the man. He gives him another couple of seconds before he clears his throat, ready to- he isn’t sure what to, but nevertheless ready for it. Thankfully, Carlos beats him on time, swirling towards them with a look that is halfway between panicked and ecstatic, apparently completely unbothered by the fact that the three of them had been keeping him unofficially detained until ten seconds ago.</p>
<p class="p1">“I need to go back to Night Vale,” he states, resolutely, “I- I don’t know exactly how I got here, which is <em>incredibly</em> scientifically interesting, but regardless of how much I want to investigate it I’m not making the same mistake twice. I need to go back.”</p>
<p class="p1">He nods, his chest puffed out, squarely. The three of them just look back at him, dumbfounded. </p>
<p class="p1">“This… this Night Vale of yours… does it happen to be within driving distance, perchance?” Basira raises an eyebrow, her stubborn refusal to be taken aback by anything strange a form of odd entertainment for Jon. Apparently, Daisy, too, finds it entertaining, if the quiet laugh she dutifully hides as a cough is any indication.</p>
<p class="p1">Carlos, on his part, doesn’t seem to notice Basira’s attitude and just shoves a hand even deeper in his hair, musing it up even more, if possible, “I’m afraid not,” he sighs, looking down at his notebook and flipping through it. It looks fairly used, with pages upon pages clawed in with different colours and textures, none of which seem to resemble actual ink, “It’s in America, but that’s the last of my problems. Night Vale isn’t exactly an easy city to find, and I don’t really remember how I got there in the first place.”</p>
<p class="p1">He chuckles, as if that’s completely normal and to be expected, and Jon does a double-take, asking before he can help himself, “What do you mean you don’t remember how you got there?”</p>
<p class="p1">“I think it’s a way for the city to preserve itself? Somehow?” the scientist easily replies, but not because compelled to. He just seems to be naturally verbose, which in any other circumstance might have even been entertaining, but right now it’s simply working against them, derailing any sort of coherence their conversation ever tried to hold, “That is not to mean that the city is sentient, though if you listen to how some of its citizens talk it might as well be, it’s just- it’s complicated. I know I drove there, I still have my car with me, but the journey itself? It’s a complete blank. One of my coworkers, Dave- he’s a scientist too, you know, we’re all a team of scientists, that’s our thing, but he’s also a great cook- he tried to leave one of the first weeks, I think it was the Glow Cloud- <em>all hail</em>- that scared him? Which is understandable, one moment the sky is clear the next it’s raining dead animals, it can get quite perturbing at times- well he got in the car and started to drive, right? But somehow only ever found his way back to the city, as if it didn’t want to let him go? Eventually, he ran out of gas and just gave up, and he’s doing much better now, well apart from when he was arrested by Strex, but we don’t talk about that- anyway I didn’t try to do that myself, I don’t really-“</p>
<p class="p1">“<em>Carlos</em>,” Basira all but groans, her eyes bulging out of their sockets under the weight of the info dump the scientist just inflicted upon them. Daisy at her side is looking quite troubled herself, a fist held to her mouth as a perplexed frown adorning her face, while Jon- well, Jon is now having a hard time trying to keep quiet. Everything Carlos has said so far screams of supernatural and paranormal, and he’s longing to know more, to ask more, but he knows he can’t. Fortunately enough, Carlos doesn’t seem remotely bothered by the prospect of sharing his knowledge, so much that he could easily sit down and just listen to the man ramble and passively take it all in without having to actually compel him- but only after the more pressing issue is addressed, which is, “Where is Night Vale?”</p>
<p class="p1">For a moment the scientist seems to zone out, his eyes getting oddly glassy and his face expressionless, but he’s back in a couple of seconds, shaking his head in annoyance, and Jon realizes he had been trying to remember, “I don’t know,” Basira has no qualms about outright groaning at that, throwing her head back to glare at the ceiling in defeat, and Carlos fidgets nervously, “I don’t! I told you, the city tries to preserve itself in that way, it's like it's in its own bubble of reality. I have no idea where exactly it is, and can only tell that it’s in the US.”</p>
<p class="p1">“US, okay, let’s start with that,” Jon jumps in, solely because Basira looks one second away from grabbing Carlos by the collar of that lab coat of his and shaking him until he says something that actually makes sense, “You’d need to take a plane to get there, regardless of which state it’s in- do you have a passport with you? Or even just an ID?”</p>
<p class="p1">Again that far away look overcomes the scientist, but now it just looks like an embarrassed response, “I… I actually have no idea where either of those is,” another groan from Basira, and Daisy quietly pats her on the shoulder in sympathy, “It’s not like I ever needed any documentation in Night Vale, everyone already knew who I was, and even if they didn’t the City Council holds records on anyone who ever lived there so they could have accessed anything they needed without any problem.”</p>
<p class="p1">That… sounds like another completely different problem Jon has absolutely no intention to get into, thank you very much.</p>
<p class="p1">He doesn’t really know what to make of Carlos, but if they don’t figure out a way to send him back to his sender as soon as possible all of his idiosyncrasies are going to become their idiosyncrasies, and he doesn’t wish to be stuck dealing with the Institute upon anybody.</p>
<p class="p1">“We could ask Helen,” Daisy interjects just as he was almost done self-deprecating. She’s shrugging, meeting Jon and Basira’s eyes, her mouth pulled into a lopsided line that seems to say, <em>hey, desperate times</em>, “She can travel through space fairly easily with her doors, can’t she?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Is Helen the woman you thought had trapped me?” Carlos asks, frowning right back, “And now you want to ask her for help?”</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s a layered relationship-“</p>
<p class="p1">“Weird cities that can’t be found nor left does sound a lot like Distortion material, she might know something,” Jon nods, scratching his chin. He hasn't been able to grow a beard since he, well, died and came back to life, but he can almost feel the phantom of stubble over his cheeks. He shakes himself, and looks up at Carlos, who has been waiting for the other shoe to drop, his- he notices only now- warm eyes expectant, “What do you say, scientist? Are you up for some spacial travel?”</p>
<p class="p1">He expects the man to laugh at his poor attempt at levity, but to his surprise he just shrugs, “Oh, as long as it's not through any other desert I'm in.”</p>
<p class="p1">Right. Dunno what he expected.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Martin is busy cringing over the latest Excel file Peter had somehow managed to completely mess up when he hears the commotion. It takes him a while to process it, the fog has been keeping most noises and disturbances away from his office like a dutiful guard dog- albeit an oppressive one- and the sound of voices and footsteps echoing down the corridor feels almost foreign to his own ears, but when he finally manages to, he finds himself sinking deeper into his shoulders and into his chair, keeping still. Maybe if they don’t see him they won’t bother him.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s an odd thought, and one he would have never thought to find himself having, but also one that has become sadly familiar in the last months. He knows it’s something he simply has to deal with on his own, he <em>has</em> to get to the bottom of what Peter is doing, but he also can’t help but panic a little whenever that feeling surges.</p>
<p class="p1"><em>I have to do this</em>, he repeats to himself, over and over, <em>I have to protect him.</em></p>
<p class="p1"><em>Do you think you’ll ever be comfortable around people again after this?,</em> he asks right back, and he knows it’s a battle he is too tired to fight.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s that thought that makes him stand up from his desk with shaky legs- when was the last time he ate?- and mournfully reach for the door. He’s just checking that everything is okay, alright? It is, after all, part of his job. Peter is never around, and when he is he’s not actually physically <em>there</em>, Jon is too busy trying to get himself killed- bless and curse his heart in equal measures- and Elias, well, Elias got what he had coming for him. Let’s just say that in a way or another various responsibilities have fallen upon him, and it’s only logical for him to follow them. Begrudgingly.</p>
<p class="p1">He cracks the door to the office open, peeking his head out in the hallway- trying to ignore the alluring call of the fog, telling him how much safer it would be to look without being looked right back- but the idea trails off when he sees what caused the commotion.</p>
<p class="p1">All three of his colleagues (friends? Can he even call them that? Not after the way he treated Daisy, that's for sure) are mulling around the hallway, looking various degrees of distressed as they gesture at a fourth figure, which Martin has never seen before. He’s a skinny little thing- although not as little as Jon- he looks fairly shabby, with unkempt hair and threadbare lab coat, but he seems to be alight with energy nonetheless, completely ignoring the other three’s efforts to herd him down the corridor, too busy looking and poking at every little thing his eyes settle on.</p>
<p class="p1">“If you could follow us Helen is just right down here-“ Jon is trying to say, the same way one would expect to talk to a particularly stubborn dog, his arms outstretched as he points down the direction he’s mentioning, but the man pays him very little mind, too busy staring down into one of the many storage rooms around the archive.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, this place is enormous!” he’s exclaiming, in a voice that in any other circumstance would have made Martin flee back into the safety of the fog, away from people and their unnecessary noises, but that on this particular person seems… natural. Fitting. Like Martin could not have expected him to sound any different. Odd, “And look at all of those files! Ugh, I <em>love</em> archives- sorry, is this a weird thing to say? The City Council never lets anyone near the Hall of Records but I’ve always been fascinated with them, do you also have a record of middle school crushes?”</p>
<p class="p1">Martin is so busy looking down at this extravagant stranger that he doesn’t realize he has been seen until it’s too late. The hair at the back of his neck start itching and sure enough, the familiar feeling of being watched settles over him like a familiar arm. Jon breathes his name, softly, and he’s forced to look away from the lab coat-man to meet his gaze. Well, kind of. His eyes end up trailing off somewhere over Jon’s neck, where the scar Daisy gifted him with is on display, and he doesn’t seem to be able to lift them any higher.</p>
<p class="p1">Better off this way, he muses. Much easier to talk to him when he doesn’t have to concentrate on maintaining eye contact as well.</p>
<p class="p1">“Everything okay here?” he asks, because that is what he’s here for. Daisy and Basira, too, have noticed his presence and give him different degrees of acknowledgement- Basira a little more bewildered than Daisy, who just looks uneasy- and he doesn’t even try to find the strength to meet their gazes, too. He knows he doesn’t have any.</p>
<p class="p1">As a way of replying, Jon motions to the stranger, still enamoured with whatever had caught his attention. He tries to wander off, muttering something about <em>readings</em> and <em>data</em> but Basira steps in, muttering something of her own about <em>Helen</em> and <em>doors</em>. Certainly nothing good.</p>
<p class="p1">“Are you… Are you here to give a statement?” he finds himself asking, surprised by the sound of his own voice. The stranger looks back at him and smiles brightly as if he’s having the time of his life, and it’s so humanly happy Martin feels a pang of pain deep in his stomach. </p>
<p class="p1">The sad poetry of the moment is quickly ruined, though, as soon as the man opens his mouth to exclaim, excitedly, “I don’t know why I’m here!”</p>
<p class="p1">Jon makes an odd noise, something that on any other person would be classified as a snort but that Martin was sure Jon would never admit it is, “We don’t know either.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Does anyone ever truly know anything?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Alright, enough with that,” Basira cuts in, gently pushing both Jon and the man away and towards the end of the hallway, Daisy trailing after them with an amused expression, still not meeting Martin’s gaze- not that he tries to. The man lets himself be led away happily, soon matching the woman’s quick pace rather than make her drag him behind her, whereas Jon extricates himself from Basira’s push, trailing behind the rest.</p>
<p class="p1">He turns to face him, and Martin almost lets himself fade away from view. Almost. He knows it would be much easier, but even now, even though all the loneliness, he still has a weak spot for Jon.</p>
<p class="p1">The man himself is now fidgeting, evidently unsure how to approach him, and for how ironical the role reversal can be he hates himself of it, for putting that uncertainty there, where it’s not meant to be, “I- I know you can’t come along with us, or be around us for the matter, but… We’re here if you need us, okay?”</p>
<p class="p1">Martin breathes, glad that Jon understands. He doesn’t think he could handle another confrontation, he still feels raw from the last one, “Thank you.”</p>
<p class="p1">If Jon notices how uncharacteristically husky his voice is he doesn’t show it. He just nods, fidgets some more, in a way that could only be described as hovering, and then leaves. Leaving Martin alone, once more, with only the echoing voices of his colleagues reminding him that he is forcing himself to be.</p>
<p class="p1">Another breath, in and out.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1">It doesn’t take them long before they reach the tunnels, where Helen’s door is comfortably nestled as if it’s its rightful place, and Basira wastes no time reaching over to knock, evidently the most enthusiastic about getting Carlos home as soon as possible out of the three of them. Jon can’t exactly blame her, and he stands against the opposite wall beside Daisy, the two of them the kind of picture he’s sure he could find on the Wikipedia page for anaemia. </p>
<p class="p1">Carlos, for his part, seems to immediately tell something is up with the door (not that it’s that hard, it is a psychedelic mess of colours completely out of place in the dull tunnels) and he goes fumbling around in his lab coat before pulling out some sort of blinking box, covered in wires and tubes, the size of which should not have fit inside his pockets in the least. He turns it on with a click, and it erupts in a cacophony of high pitched beeping, accompanied with the scientist’s cooing. Jon doesn’t even pretend to try and understand the meaning of it.</p>
<p class="p1">“What are you doing?” asks Daisy, evidently not on the same wavelength as him. Her tone is fairly lighthearted too, as if she’s genuinely interested in the answer, and not as inconvenienced by the whole ordeal as Basira seems to be.</p>
<p class="p1">“Testing for materials,” Carlos easily replies, before frowning sheepishly, looking back at Daisy as that box of his keeps chirping, “I don’t… Actually know <em>what</em> materials I’m testing for, if I’m honest… There is a real chance that this door is deeply dangerous.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, it is,” Daisy smirks in that wolfish way of hers that still gives Jon chills to this day, even as they could comfortably refer to each other as friends. Carlos doesn’t seem too bothered by it, preferring to preoccupy himself with the screaming box before turning it off with a satisfied ‘hmm’ and a quick chin rub.</p>
<p class="p1">“What kind of scientist did you say you are?” he finds himself asking, stomach dropping unpleasantly at his own eagerness to Know, but thankfully not enough to actually compel the poor man.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, you know, bit of this, bit of that,” the scientist shrugs, unhelpfully, “All sorts of science, really.”</p>
<p class="p1">A pause. There seem to be a lot of those, lately.</p>
<p class="p1">“Right,” deadpans Basira, with an eyebrow lift that Jon can immediately tell means, <em>I don’t believe for a second this man is not an avatar of some sort doing a very poor job of pretending to be a confused civilian, but if he is not, what the fuck?</em></p>
<p class="p1">Thankfully for their mental sanity (or not, depends on how you look at it), the door creaks open before Carlos can add any more confusion to the general chaos that their minds are in right now, and Helen pokes her head into the tunnel, smirking that Cheshire Cat smile of hers. There’s some music playing softly in the background, not loud enough to be a distraction, but still noticeable enough that Jon immediately recognizes it as ABBA. </p>
<p class="p1">“Archivist. Ladies,” Helen greets smugly, leaning against the doorframe, her eyes ranking over the mismatched group of archival assistants before settling on Carlos with an intrigued tilt of her head, “And you are…?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Someone who needs help going home,” Basira interjects, guessing on the ecstatic look on Carlos’s face alone that it would be better to cut off any more scientific endeavours before they even start, “Could you help with that, Helen?”</p>
<p class="p1">Sure enough, the man himself is already pulling out a notebook from his pockets, taking frantic notes without looking down at what he’s doing with what looks like a piece of charcoal. He mutters something indiscernible about the corridor he can peer at from around Helen’s silhouette before settling on Helen herself, still looking down at him with mischievous interest. The horror Jon had expected to see on Carlos’s face when he finally settles his eyes on the literal punch in the face that is Helen’s figure is nowhere to be found, and the scientist doesn’t look remotely nonplussed, “You are positively disproportionate,” he states, looking down at Helen’s long fingers as he scribbles frantically on that notebook of his. There’s no need to check if that was meant as an insult or not, Carlos’s tone alone suggested it was everything but, “It’s kind of familiar, actually. Do you happen to know anyone named Erika?”</p>
<p class="p1">Helen blinks down at the odd man, before turning towards Jon. He has never seen her look properly confused. It’s unsettling.</p>
<p class="p1">“He appeared through a door in my office,” he explains, figuring it's only fair to fill Helen in on the ridiculousness of the situation. He had figured she has nothing to do with it, but the confirmation is clear. Carlos tries to step around Helen to get a better look at the corridor behind her but Daisy steps forward, muttering something about <em>not a good idea</em>, and Jon can’t help but feel bad for whoever is close to this man, given how little he seems to value his own wellbeing when investigating something he finds interesting, “We thought he was one of your victims, so-“</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, you wound me,” Helen seems to have already collected herself from her initial shock, hand on her chest with a pouted smile, as the ABBA chorus behind her keeps on chanting, unaware of the shenanigans their avatar is about to be dragged into.</p>
<p class="p1">“You know you could have just asked instead of making assumptions, right?” Carlos points out, not looking up from the uncannily long hand he’s transcribing on his notebook via a quick sketch that is somehow ten times better than anything Jon ever put effort in, which is just unfair.</p>
<p class="p1">“Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight,” the corridor sings, unhelpfully.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, it’s not like you gave us any conclusive answer,” Basira retorts, having absolutely no issue stating things as they are, “Helen, can you or can you not help?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Sure, this looks <em>very</em> interesting,” Helen replies, which Jon does not like <em>at all</em>, but will have to just deal with. They don’t really have any other choice at the moment, and if the whole issue with Night Vale being unfindable is even half true the Spiral is probably the only shot they have at reaching it. Helen has also shown herself to be fairly reliable, but that doesn’t mean he has to like her, “Where are we headed?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Night Vale,” Carlos leans back from where he had been… sciencing, and pockets his notebook, folding his arms over his chest with a perturbed expression, “And I told you, it’s not an easy place to find.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, I’d love to try,” Helen properly purrs, or at least Jon assumes he does. The sound she makes comes out as grating, and it hurts his ears a bit. Daisy on his side even tilts her head with a wince, so he definitely isn’t the only one who felt it, “Where is it?”</p>
<p class="p1">Again that far away look that had crossed Carlos’s face the last time he was asked is back, and he shakes his head with a little groan, “That’s the thing! I have no idea!” his voice is slightly raised, but not in that excited way of his. He looks properly concerned, and Jon allows himself to feel bad for the guy for a moment. He knows he would absolutely freak out if he found himself in a foreign place with an assorted bunch of semi-humans doomed to serve an eldritch being his only help, and Carlos really has been reacting much more positively than he would have expected, “I don’t think I would even be able to point it out on a map, it’s the whole point of the city, it’s not meant to be found.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Jon, could you look for it?” Daisy speaks up from behind them, still leaning on the wall, “Like, with a capital L?”</p>
<p class="p1">“I… Really don’t want to do that,” Jon shifts, uncomfortable. If Carlos has no way to narrow it down he would have to try and look into his memories to figure it out himself, and he really, <em>really</em> doesn’t want to even try that.</p>
<p class="p1">“We might have no other choice,” Basira points out, before nodding her chin towards the scientist, “Any landmark you remember that could help us place it?”</p>
<p class="p1">Carlos ponders it for a few seconds, before groaning in frustrating, running a hand over his face, “God, it’s like trying to remember the details of a dream. It’s in a desert, so I’m fairly certain it’s in the southwest of the US, but I don’t have any more than that.”</p>
<p class="p1">“That might be enough,” Helen interjects, and Jon silently blows out a sigh of relief, glad that he doesn’t seem to have to use his powers just yet, “The general location will make it easier for me but there is something obviously odd going on with this city, I’ll probably just feel it when I get close,” Basira and Daisy shoot each other a confused look, but Jon gets it, in a way. He doesn’t know how the Distortion works, exactly, but he knows how it feels like when certain statements call to him, and how the Eye generally guides him in his, uh, diet, so he assumes it’s probably something similar, “How do I know if I’m in the right place?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Go to the radio station and ask after Cecil,” Carlos immediately supplies, his voice gaining a desperate lift near the end of the sentence, “If you find him you’ve found Night Vale.”</p>
<p class="p1"><em>Cecil</em>. Something about the name awakes a newfound hunger in Jon, just the same way hearing the name Night Vale for the first time had, but it’s slightly different. He’s suddenly overcome with the need to Know, to hear whatever tale this <em>Cecil</em> has to say about this <em>Night Vale</em>, and before he knows it he finds himself licking his lips, an embarrassing display of exactly how inhuman he has recently gotten. Nobody seems to have noticed it, thankfully, but just as he’s about to declare it a silent victory Helen points at him, her sharp teeth on display through a maniacal smile.</p>
<p class="p1">“Ohhh, you felt it too, didn’t you?” she coos, gleefully, like a deranged cat lady who just witnessed one of her newest kittens catch and maim a bird. Jon can’t help the scoff that escapes him, nor the way he immediately cages his chest behind crossed arms.</p>
<p class="p1">“Shut up.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Charming,” Helen sighs, before clapping her too-boned hands, making all of them flinch in surprise- even Carlos, who seemed to have gotten a bit lost in his thoughts after the mention of this Cecil fellow, “Right, off I go, I guess. I’ll let you know when I find this city of yours. It shouldn’t take long, probably between an hour and ten days.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Wait. Did you just said ten-“ Basira tries to call after Helen, but she’s already gone, closing her damned door behind her back and cutting out the sound of ABBA. Leaving the four of them standing around dumbly in the empty tunnel.</p>
<p class="p1">Right. Ten days. That would mean they need to find some sort of accommodation for Carlos, a place to sleep, some food to eat- a chance to take a good shower, considering he’s still covered in sand- but nobody seems ready to voice that concern just yet.</p>
<p class="p1">They just stand there, staring at each other, silently, figuring out what to do next. Daisy seems to be the one who figures it out first.</p>
<p class="p1">“Anyone hungry?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>how do we feel about mag187 fellas?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">When it becomes clear that Helen’s little adventure in the US is going to take closer to ten days than the one hour she had so optimistically foreseen, the three of them set up to fixing a temporary stay for Carlos in the archives. With nothing but the clothes on his back and a title, it’s not like he could rent a room until he gets out of there, and against better judgment, Jon can’t really find it within himself to kick him out on the street. </p><p class="p1">The archives are a fairly busy place recently, too, so he wouldn't be left completely unsupervised, free to roam the place and put in act whatever nefarious plan of his he’s been hiding from them this whole time. Or at least, he assumes that’s what Basira is thinking, eyeing the man critically as Jon fetches some clean sheets for the couch in the break room. She’s still convinced that this is all some sort of facade, and is just waiting for Carlos to turn around and finally reveal himself to be the supervillain mastermind he so obviously is, but Jon knows that won’t happen.</p><p class="p1">He has no intention to compel Carlos to tell him anything, and he won’t try if asked, but the nagging part of his brain that he's been recently gifted with helpfully informs him that he's not lying. The scientist appears to be an overshared, and he mostly gives straight forward- if info-dumpy- answers when asked questions, and through it all Jon has the distinct feeling that it is all true and that he is not fabricating any of it, and he’s content enough with that.</p><p class="p1">Point is, Carlos won’t be really alone in the archives, probably ever, because in a way or another they’re all spending most of their times there in recent times. Let it be out of pure need- what with the whole issue of literal distance decay that the Eye had so kindly granted them- or because of pure pragmatism, the three of them have found themselves crashing onto the few cots and couches in the archives more often than not, so Carlos sleeping there is merely an addition to this sad, extended sleepover they’ve been having for the past months.</p><p class="p1">With that being said, this is a stranger they’re talking about, so there is a very high chance that they might have some issue adjusting to his sudden presence, but Jon is sure it won’t be anything drastic.</p><p class="p1">After all, Helen had said she wouldn’t be gone long, surely it won’t be too bad, right?</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">Daisy doesn’t like being alone. She’s not ashamed to admit it, and will do so if asked why, exactly, she keeps hovering around Jon and Basira, leaning against walls and door frames close enough to keep them in her field of vision, but that doesn’t mean she’s proud of it.</p><p class="p1">She knows she can’t help it, it’s merely a panicked reaction to the prospect of being alone with her thoughts and her memories that have been haunting her since she left that bloody coffin, but she’s also aware of how inconvenient it can be. Jon and Basira never say it, just give her warm looks that do very little to hide just how put-out they are by the occurrence, but Martin surely hadn’t had any issue expressing his dislike in her behaviour.</p><p class="p1">No, that isn’t fair of her. Martin is… going through something, the same way she had, too, though not exactly in the <em>same</em> way, and it would be hypocritical to judge him for it. Not to mention, she definitely was kind of an asshole to him on their first meeting, and did almost kill the man he’s obviously in love with, so it's understandable that she wouldn't be his favourite person to be around. She gets it, really.</p><p class="p1">It’s fine.</p><p class="p1">She’s fine.</p><p class="p1">The most recent embodiment of her separation anxiety moves down the corridor, hand running along the spines of the books upon books stacked on the shelves, and she follows silently- not stalking, just accompanying. She should probably feel embarrassed, finding comfort in a total stranger, such an obviously weird one too, but she’s tired, putting almost all of her energy into fighting the alluring call of the Hunt, trying to drag her down towards its vicious and bloodied grasp, and definitely has no plan to beat herself up more than entirely necessary. The man is bubbly, warm, and kind, and Jon did say that he shouldn’t be left alone to roam the Institute, both for his safety and theirs, so really, she’s just doing everyone a favour.</p><p class="p1">Carlos rounds the corner and stops, his hands resuming that frantic research he had set them to, running them over the books and pulling out some seemingly at random, and Daisy just follows, pushing the already half-full cart along. </p><p class="p1">He had been fairly distraught this morning when he had realized that his phone had completely died and wouldn’t turn back on, but he seems to have recovered now. The model had been too old for any of them to have a charger for it, and one look at the battery inside also suggested that it had simply come its hour, but Carlos had looked as if he had just witnessed someone’s death. He had quickly brushed it off, and they had gone on with their day, but once Jon and Basira had gone back to work and they were alone he had opened up to her after some soft inquiry, and confessed that that had been his only way of communicating to his home town.</p><p class="p1">“It’s fine,” he had croaked out, as they were making their way upstairs to the library. Jon had mentioned it off-hand, as a way for Carlos to pass the day and entertain himself until Helen’s return, and after an odd initial look of utter panic the man had properly beamed, happily accepting Daisy’s offer to take him to it, “The woman in the door said she’s going to find Cecil, so I’ll talk to him again soon, it’s fine, it’s okay.”</p><p class="p1">He had not looked fine in the slightest, but Daisy has never been great with words, so she had just nodded. Helen is definitely going to come back with this Cecil of his- was he a relative? Or a boyfriend? The second option seems more likely- and he’s going to be fine.</p><p class="p1">“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” Daisy asks from over the cart, looking down at the array of books Carlos has seized from the shelves with ravenous interest, as if someone might jump out from behind the corner and attack them for it. There doesn’t seem to be any sort of criterium to what he’s taking, from history tomes to ethnographies to law books, and she’s fairly intrigued in his odd taste, “Maybe I could help you find it.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m looking for anything published after 2012,” he explains, running his finger along the spine of another book, pulling it out, quickly flicking through its pages until he reaches the publishing date and adding it to the cart without a second thought. He seems to be aware of the weirdness of his statement because he continues, without Daisy’s prompting, “That’s the year I moved to Night Vale. The City Council has a ban on most books, and the library seems to be fairly inaccessible- I haven’t really tried getting into, I just know- so I haven’t really read anything since I’ve gotten there. It wasn’t that big of a deal, but I suppose this is the best time as ever to pick up some extra culture while I wait.”</p><p class="p1">Daisy decides that the safest way to react to that is to hum. Nothing of what he just said should make the slightest amount of sense, but he’s acting as if it’s just a matter of fact, and she’s not going to question it, “Sounds pretty, uh, authoritarian.”</p><p class="p1">Carlos tenses for a second, looking around wildly as if on instinct, but immediately relaxes, “I mean, yeah,” he reaches for another book, this one appears to be a dictionary if its size is anything to go by, but he adds it to the cart nonetheless, “You get used to it. The constant monitoring can get annoying, at times, but at least the Secret Police agent that was assigned to my lab is a nice enough guy. He always waves at me as I leave for the night.”</p><p class="p1">Another hum. She wonders how much Carlos is driving Jon up the wall with the array of oddities he keeps on bringing up- she’s feeling the itching need to ask him to clarify even now when she’s content enough to amiably listen to the man ramble, she can’t imagine what an actual hunger for knowledge must feel like.</p><p class="p1">They reach the end of that section of the library, and Carlos walks over to the cart, considering the dozens of books he has accumulated in the barely fifteen minutes they’ve been roaming the library. Daisy isn’t even sure they can actually take that many books out at once, but supposes there are more pressing issues at hand. When your ex-boss is an omniscient eldritch monster convicted of multiple murders book rental kind of falls behind on the scale of priorities in the grand scheme of things.</p><p class="p1">“That’s enough for one trip,” he finally concludes, hands in his lab coat. It’s still visibly scarred by the time he spent in that desert of his, the hems of it marked by the sand and the wind, and she wonders if there’s any way she could point it out without sounding rude, “Or at least, I think it is. I don’t really read, if I’m honest- this is the first time I’ve been in a library, ever,” he makes a carefree, sweeping gesture with a hand at the rows upon rows of books, and a passing library assistant shoots them an annoyed glance, “I never needed to, before. After all, I’m a scientist, not an English major.”</p><p class="p1">She hums once again, knowing well that if she asked him to clarify anything he has just said she would only get even more questions than answers. Instead, she just pushes the cart forward, headed for the checkout desk, an excitable scientist trailing after her as he tries not to grab any more books, “Anything else that City Council of yours keeps you from doing?”</p><p class="p1">She meant it as a joke, but Carlos just sighs wistfully, “God, I haven’t had some good Mac and cheese in <em>ages</em> because of their wheat and wheat by-products ban.”</p><p class="p1">Right. She doesn’t even know why she’s surprised. Silently, she makes a mental note to get Carlos some pasta next time they go out to eat. It’s only fair, she concludes.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">Basira doesn’t trust this man. Not one bit.</p><p class="p1">Sure, he seems nice, and kind, and funny, but she won’t let him fool her. There is something obviously off about him, and while the others are so quick to dismiss it as some natural idiosyncrasies, or- as Jon had unhelpfully suggested, as they watched the odd man cover every single mirror in the archive’s bathroom with raised eyebrows- the apparent weirdness of Night Vale having rubbed onto him, Basira doesn’t let herself be swayed by that chance.</p><p class="p1">He is obviously, without a doubt, some odd avatar who thinks he’s really good at tricking the Archivist and his assistants into believing he’s an innocent civilian looking for help, waiting for the perfect moment to stick the knife in their back, and Basira will be damned if she lets her guard down around him.</p><p class="p1">Now, one may ask <em>what</em>, exactly, Carlos is an avatar of, if she’s so sure he is a supernatural accessory to a fear entity, and to that Basira would reply- she’s working on it.</p><p class="p1">There is just so much going on with that man at once that writing all of it off as a single entity is almost impossible. Carlos seems to have a plethora of weird and paranormal encounters or facts, and none of them would appear to overlap with the image of an innocent man, as much as Daisy and Jon seem keen on keeping that lie up. </p><p class="p1">One day he could talk about spiders, and the danger of illiteracy within the spider community; around lunch the same day he might avoid eating rare meat, murmuring something about <em>flesh</em> and <em>blood</em> and <em>you know, Kevin and all</em>, as if expecting any of them to understand what he’s getting at, to then arrive at night curling up on his couch with a cup of tea Jon has taken to making almost on autopilot recently (a sort of coping mechanism for that grave case of pining he has gotten infected with) and a tale about clones and people who look like other people, but actually aren’t.</p><p class="p1">The culmination of what is by now an intense headache ever-present at the base of Basira’s skull was when this morning, as he witnessed for the first time Jon properly Knowing something without being able to brush it off as a totally normal human occurrence, he had just <em>cooed</em>, nodding thoughtfully.</p><p class="p1">“Cecil also does that sometimes,” he had explained, a soft look appearing on his face as the three of them stared at him in disbelief, because really, there was no way he, too, had had the unfortunate disgrace of falling under the Eye’s influence across an entire ocean and half a continent, “He tends to use it for traffic, but I still haven't figured out how aware of it he is.”</p><p class="p1">Point is, regardless of what Carlos says, Basira only has one anchor in this whole situation: he’s not as innocent as he might appear to be, and she has every intention to find out exactly what his deal is before it is too late.</p><p class="p1">She’s busy frantically tapping on her keyboard, scrolling through endless pages of debatable social media forums, when she hears someone walk in. She has by now learned the walking patters of each of her colleges- something that is totally normal and natural and not an appendix of her distrust in them, thank you very much- so she doesn’t look up from her computer as she hears Jon round up the corner of her desk, setting something on it. Another cup of stress tea.</p><p class="p1">“There,” she announces, finger pressing against the monitor screen accusingly, hard enough to bend the material a little. Jon pauses near the door, a soft sound of inquiry leaving his mouth, and she just jabs the finger harder, “I knew I’d eventually find something.”</p><p class="p1">“What are you talking about?” Jon asks, more as a way to fill the silence than to take actual interest in what she's doing. He seems particularly bummed out recently, between their general inactivity and Carlos’s sudden arrival, and the fact that Martin still refuses to talk to them only adds insult to injury (disgustingly so, if you ask her), but Basira couldn’t care less about it. With a quick motion, she turns the monitor towards him, a bit more forceful than entirely necessary, and watches Jon squint at the words there.</p><p class="p1">“‘<em>Whatever you do, do not approach Night Vale, USA,’</em>” he begins, the usual cadence of his statements sneaking into their conversation like an unwanted guest, and Basira purses her lips, “‘<em>I, 27M, just barely escaped in one piece. I don’t know what exactly is going on there but trust me, you don’t want to find out, and even if you did the city is as hard to find as it is to escape it, so take my word on it. Satanic cults, overly violent police, authoritarian government- you name it, Night Vale has it. I came here with a group of scientists to study all the paranormal occurrences, thinking they were just normal phenomena that the local hilly billies couldn’t find a proper explanation for but I was wrong, so so wrong. I managed to escape, but my co-workers are still there, and I fear the worst.</em>’”</p><p class="p1">Jon leans back from where he had been squinting and meets Basira’s gaze with an unimpressed look. She just scoffs, turning the monitor back towards her, “I told you, that guy’s in on it,” she scrolls down to the comments under the post, looking for more information, any lead she can follow, but only finds a handful of ‘lol wtf’s and ‘op this is a serious sub, no made-up stuff plz’, total rubbish if you ask her, “You should question him about this, properly ask him this time.”</p><p class="p1">“I… Don’t want to,” Jon eventually says, a crease of unhappiness appearing between his eyebrows. She sighs, and he only gets more defensive, “I don’t! I don’t think he has lied to far, and I don’t particularly want to traumatize an innocent man, so-“</p><p class="p1">“There is no trace of Night Vale anywhere on the internet,” she interjects, rubbing a hand over her face. God, she is <em>so</em> tired, “This is the only lead I have found at all, and you don’t even want to follow it?”</p><p class="p1">“That’s not how it is and you know it,” Jon sighs, peeking around the monitor in front of Basira. There is a little dent in the middle of it, the shape of a fingernail, and she pretends not to see it, “Where did you even find that post?”</p><p class="p1">A pause. The dent in the monitor stares back at her almost mockingly.</p><p class="p1">“Reddit.”</p><p class="p1">“Good lord.”</p><p class="p1">“I’ll have you know the paranormal sub is very well moderated,” she deadpans, refusing to cross her arms on her chest like she wants to. She knows she’s right, and that Jon is being absurd by blindly trusting a stranger, and she won’t allow him to write her concerns off as simple paranoia, “Now if you could just <em>ask</em> him that would be-“</p><p class="p1">As if compelled by them just talking about him, the door squeaks open once again, and Carlos trots in, blissfully unaware of Basira’s recent discovery. He’s holding a tall pile of books, surprisingly well balanced against his chest and under his chin, and so is Daisy, trailing behind him, begrudgingly, like a cat that doesn’t want to be alone but also doesn’t want to show it. He gives them both a nod of acknowledgement as he makes his way towards the desk he has recently claimed as his own, apparently unconcerned with the meaningful glances Basira keeps shooting Jon.</p><p class="p1">“You guys okay?” Daisy asks from over her books, eyes affixed on the two of them even as Carlos reaches over to take the pile from her. The desk is already a mess of thick tomes from the many trips the two of them have taken to the library, terrorising the poor library workers no doubt, and the scientist just adds the new ones to the general disarray, standing over them with a self-satisfied smile. </p><p class="p1">Neither of them replies, too busy with the staring contest they got going, until finally, Basira sighs, “Carlos, care to explain this?” she turns the monitor towards him as it squeaks in protest and wobbles dangerously, and the scientist scoots closer, curious eyes scanning the web page. It takes him just a few seconds to read, but it still gives Jon enough time to glare at Basira with those intense eyes of his. She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of letting it get to her.</p><p class="p1">“Oh yeah, that’s Matt,” Carlos soon supplies, seeming completely unbothered. She had expected him to look somewhat guilty, or at the very least put-out by that random piece of information Basira managed to extrapolate from his past, but he’s just nodding, apparently happy to be of help, “He left on the second month, I think? If I remember correctly it was the dinosaurs that were the last straw for him. Always wondered what he’s been up to.”</p><p class="p1">He hums, then turns on his heels to go back to whatever it is he plans to do with those books of his. Completely unfazed once again. Daisy waits just another second before she joins him, organizing the books in neat little piles for lack of anything better to do.</p><p class="p1">Jon has the good sense to not comment on it and just leaves the room without looking back. Basira takes one last look at the post before downvoting it.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">Martin tries to keep away from the stranger as best as he can. It’s nothing personal, really, he’s sure Carlos is a wonderful person to be around- or at the very least, that’s what he has gathered from seeing Daisy trail after him around the hallways like a lost puppy- but that doesn’t mean it’s any easier to be around him.</p><p class="p1">One of the collateral effects of the Lonely’s influence is that now he has a very low tolerance level when it comes to people, and without actually wanting to, he finds himself retracting from any sort of social contact, finding it downright annoying at times. It’s something he tries not to focus too much on- he has always been on the extroverted side, and to see himself draw back from human contact and finding actual contentment in his own isolation is almost too painful to bear- but a part of his new self nonetheless. Hopefully, if everything turns out right, it’s nothing that he will have to deal with forever.</p><p class="p1">Hopefully.</p><p class="p1">But back to the main point: Carlos looks like a kind enough guy, but he’d rather stay out of his way. With all due respect.</p><p class="p1">It’s nothing exactly impossible to achieve, he has been doing this for months on end now, nothing he isn’t used to, but adding a new person to the labyrinth of paths and routines he has to navigate around in order to be alone is certainly… discombobulating. And of course, sometimes his fail-proof plan does, in fact, fail, and he ends up stumbling across the guy in question, and although every fibre of his new-aligned being tries to bristle at him he has to admit, he doesn’t mind as much as he could.</p><p class="p1">The fact that Carlos is a properly odd person probably plays a factor in the equation, managing to confuse him enough to make him forget about his own self-imposed loneliness, but that’s beside the point. He has only stumbled across him a couple of times since his arrival, once when he found his colleagues trying to herd him around the institute like a bunch of deranged shepherds, and the other, well. The other speaks for itself.</p><p class="p1">He doesn’t even remember what the deal was about, why Carlos was suddenly in office, poking around and asking those light-hearted questions of his that really should concern him more than they actually do, all he can remember is that one second he was going on about <em>science and whatnot</em>, and the next he was reaching for the pen Martin had just taken from his drawer to fiddle with, grabbing it in a quick motion before chucking it into the trashcan.</p><p class="p1">The whole movement took less than half a seconds, so quick that it left Martin dumbfounded for a moment, wondering what the hell had just happened, and then the apologies had flooded in.</p><p class="p1">“Sorry!” Carlos had exclaimed, a hand in his hair and a horrified expression on his face, “Sorry! That was- force of habit, I’m <em>so</em> sorry, Martin-“</p><p class="p1">And he had gone on to explain and justify his own unhingedness, informing him of how the City Council had put a ban on all writing utensils and how it had pretty much activated a Pavlovian response in him to the point that he now reacted to the presence of a pen or a pencil on instinct, throwing it away from himself at the speed of light before the Sheriff’s Secret Police could hunt him down for it, and how sorry he was and he really didn’t mean to, and let me just get that back for you real quick- and then he was gone, leaving a confused and vaguely amused Martin sitting at his desk, empty hand still holding an invisible pen.</p><p class="p1">That certainly had been something.</p><p class="p1">It’s only a few days later, just as he’s making his way to his office (which is actually Elias’s old office, and which he despises to his very core, but that’s an issue for another moment) that he finds him again. He’s just standing there in front of the closed door, a pensive look on his face and some odd machinery in his hand, and Martin is just about done debating whether it’s worth facing him first thing in the morning or if it would be better to just let the fog reclaim him long enough to sneak away from the awkwardness of the social interaction when Carlos turns, and waves at him amicably, and really, how could he just turn his back to such a genuine reaction.</p><p class="p1">“Ah, hello” the scientist greets him as Martin makes his way towards him, way too cheerful for such an early hour in the morning, “Sorry for the bother, I was just busy testing for materials and the detector, here, really went crazy when I passed your office, so I was wondering if it would be okay for me to, you know-“</p><p class="p1">He goes on to explain exactly what he’s doing with that tool of his, mentioning various scientific terms and concepts Martin isn’t remotely qualified to even pretend to understand, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because by now he has completely tuned out his voice, too busy staring at what he’s wearing to pay proper attention. Over the grey t-shirt he seems to have reclaimed- no doubt lent by the others, and if the total monotint of it is any indication it’s probably Basira’s- he’s sporting a dark cardigan that makes him look much older than he is, the same one Martin has seen on Jon countless of times, and that thought alone is enough to send him reeling. </p><p class="p1">The utter fondness he feels thinking just about Jon’s cardigan- not even Jon himself, his bloody <em>cardigan</em>- would be ridiculous in any other situation, but Martin only takes a sigh of relief in response. At least the Lonely hasn’t taken that, too, away from him. At least there’s that.</p><p class="p1">Regardless of how grateful he is for the feeling’s presence, he’s still left somehow raw from it, too touched by the unexpected wave of affection to put up much of a fight against it, so he just silently reaches for the door, unlocking it under Carlos’s silent gaze. He opens it wide, enough to make a mock of a sweeping gesture towards it, and tries his best to offer a small smile, “I’m assuming you want to have a go at it?”</p><p class="p1">Carlos properly beams. It’s an odd look on someone who is most likely older than he is.</p><p class="p1">“Oh that’s <em>neat</em>!” the scientist wastes absolutely no time scooting past Martin and into the office, turning that machinery of his on as he goes, and soon enough the room is filled with unholy high pitched chirping coming from it, and they both wince at it, “I have no idea what is going on in here but that is definitely something I want to look into, it’s having the same reaction it had in front of that door, and in Jon’s office when he was doing one of those statement thingies of his, so it’s probably all connected-“</p><p class="p1">He goes reaching from his notebook as he rambles, dangerously balancing the machine on his other hand, and Martin steps forward on instinct, ready to catch it if it falls, and that’s when the chirping turns to a lone, continuous screech of static. Whatever that thing is detecting, it’s detecting it on Martin.</p><p class="p1">“Huh!” Carlos exclaims, forgetting about the office to turn his attention on Martin, who isn't particularly happy with it, but when is he ever, “Now this is interesting. I didn’t expect it to pick up on people too, but I guess I never got close enough to try with any of you-“ he finally pulls out his notebook and starts frantically writing on it, his eyes busy jumping between Martin and the machine but still somehow writing in a mostly neat handwriting, “Well, of course, I know how it reacts to Cecil, but that’s just Cecil, so it’s to be expected.”</p><p class="p1">“Right,” Martin states, for lack of anything better to do. He doesn’t really have great expectations for his life nowadays, just kind of facing each inconvenience as it presents itself to him, but he still hadn’t really taken into account the excitable scientist who has been living in the archives for the past couple of days pointing some odd machinery on him and declaring him scientifically interesting. A different person might have even found it flattering, but as things are he feels mostly… apathetic. Nothing new, really.</p><p class="p1">“Sorry, this is terribly rude of me,” Carlos shakes his head, and finally turns off the still screaming machine. It quiets down from its continuous screeching leaving Martin with a ringing ear and a painfully quiet office, “Would it be okay for me to study the data I got from you? I don’t know what kind of discovery this might lead me to so I figured it’d be polite to ask for permission, you know.”</p><p class="p1">Martin doesn’t really know, but he surprises himself by nodding along, and murmuring a soft ‘sure’. He can’t find it within himself to show proper interest in what the scientist his doing, his head is too foggy and he has always been more of a literature kind of guy, but he figures there’s no harm in taking part in the betterment of science. Whatever that means.</p><p class="p1">Carlos takes another couple of quick notes on his pad, leaning against Martin’s desk while Martin himself is just standing there, unable to properly function around another human being. At one point the scientist reaches his free hand up to his chest, massaging it with a wince, and much to Martin’s horror his brain jumps up to the opportunity of small talk, and cannot stop himself from asking, “You okay there?”</p><p class="p1">Thankfully for him, Carlos doesn’t find the question odd, and he just nods, pocketing both notebook and machine to face Martin more fully, “Yeah, it’s fine,” the motion of his hand is familiar, the way his palm is brushing over the top part of his torso in soothing, slow movements, so he’s not particularly surprised when he elaborates, “It’s just my scars, they feel kind of… tight, at times, and it’s a bit uncomfortable.”</p><p class="p1">Martin finds himself humming, and replying before he can truly think about it, reaching for his own scars with a light, quick touch, “Oh, yeah, I get it. Mine do the same, and they used to itch something terrible.”</p><p class="p1">He’s not sure why he’s still talking, and why he hasn’t kindly (or unkindly) asked Carlos to vacate the premise and let him go back to his loneliness, but the odd moment of relatability sits surprisingly well on his chest, and only sits better when the scientist smiles and nods in agreement, “Right! It's the worst!” his hand leaves his chest, and they go resting in the pockets of the cardigan. Jon’s cardigan. God. And then, because it’s Carlos he’s speaking with, the small slimmer of familiarity is crushed when he jokes, “Was it a tiny underground secret civilization for you, too?”</p><p class="p1">Martin lets himself properly giggle at that, and postpones the confusion caused by that statement for another moment, “Something like that.”</p><p class="p1">Carlos nods with a smile, then sheepishly decides that he has bothered Martin enough (his words, not Martin’s) and quietly pads away, pace quickening as he makes his way back to whatever little corner he has reclaimed for himself nowadays, no doubt to ponder over the data he has just gathered.</p><p class="p1">Martin closes the door behind him, and sits down at his desk, ready for another miserable, lonely day. It takes him a whole ten minutes before he realizes he’s still smiling.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">Jon walks into the break room to find Carlos occupying the entire table with scraps of metals and tools, and is surprised by how much the sight doesn’t bother him. It’s only been five days since Helen has left, so they haven’t exactly gotten used to the scientist’s presence, but it is slowly becoming familiar, so much that he now looks forward to seeing him roam the archives on whichever little quest he has set his mind to.</p><p class="p1">Today, said quest seems to be completely disassembling what after a good and proper look appears to be a radio. Carlos just nods when he senses his presence, muttering something about coffee still being in the pot, before quickly going back to his tinkering. Jon is just about to say hello back, ask him how he slept, did anyone bother him, did Peter Lukas finally show up to try and banish him out of the archives, but the words die in his throat when his eyes properly set on Carlos.</p><p class="p1">As he said, it’s been a few days, and it’s only reasonable for Carlos to have showered since he showed up, no fault in that. It’s also reasonable for him to have changed clothes; he didn’t have anything more than what he showed up in, so they had all agreed to offer him some of their own clothes they already had in the archives, from their own nights spent there, and that is also absolutely correct. Thing is, Carlos is wearing an oversized black shirt, big enough that he can just see the tip of some discoloured patch of skin on his chest- no doubt a scar, he’s unfortunately familiar enough with those to be able to tell- and over it the smiley cartoon of a teabag greets him, happily announcing that that is, in fact, ‘a tea-shirt’.</p><p class="p1">The shirt is Martin’s, he probably left it during his stay after Prentiss, and Jon suddenly has trouble breathing.</p><p class="p1">“You okay?” Carlos asks, his hands fumbling with some wires of some sort as he squints at him, more worried than curious. He must look absolutely devastated if he manages to concern such a carefree person as him.</p><p class="p1">“Just peachy,” he croaks out, making his way to the coffee pot on unstable legs. <em>Get it together, Sims</em>, “What are you up to?”</p><p class="p1">Blessedly enough, Carlos lets the matter drop with a non-committal hum, looking back at his handiwork, “Oh, just trying to tune in on Night Vale’s radio frequency,” he states, matter-of-factly. Jon has absolutely no idea what he and his hands are doing, so he can just nod along, glancing down at the sad little cup of coffee he’s been left with. It’s still warm enough, there’s that at least, “I managed to listen to Cecil’s show in the Desert Otherworld, though I sometimes accidentally tuned into a future broadcast, I guess it should be easier now that I just have physical distance as an obstacle rather than an actual parallel universe difference.”</p><p class="p1">“Hmm,” Jon muses. The metal between Carlos’s hands makes a <em>cling</em> sound as it’s connected and screwed together, “This Cecil, is he your…?”</p><p class="p1">“My honey-voiced honey,” the scientist lets out a proper dreamily sigh at that, his hands momentarily stilling as he stares off into the distance, a small, happy smile appearing on his face. It’s disgustingly adorable, “He does the broadcasts at NVCR, I’ve been listening to him every single day, and now that I can’t do that anymore I’ve gotten kind of fidgety, you know?” he looks back at him, the softness of his gaze still very much there, and Jon doesn’t need to know to tell that Carlos loves Cecil more than anyone else in the world, “Like a part of me is missing.”</p><p class="p1">Carlos is a properly weird person. He’s overly chatty, has apparently been conditioned into being wary of libraries and writing utensils of all things, he is still somehow leaving little trails of sands wherever he goes when he wanders the archives, and just the other morning he described the sunset as ‘quiet, but beautiful’. But still, seeing him absently thumbing a screwdriver in his hand, a faraway look on his face as he mumbles something about regrets and missing a person-shaped part of his heart, Jon can oddly relate.</p><p class="p1">Funny how life is sometimes.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, I… I understand,” he decides to settle on, leaning against the counter as his finger absently find the rim of his mug, running around it with a soft little sigh. God, what has Martin turned him into. A true stereotype of cheesiness. </p><p class="p1">Somehow, Carlos catches onto his tone, and he turns towards him, an unreadable look on his face, “Not to mind your business, but are you…” he points at Jon, then points down the corridor, towards Elias’s old office that has been recently reclaimed by Martin, and ends the sentence with a raised eyebrow. Not judgmental, simply curious. </p><p class="p1">Jon bristles, looking away quickly as he regretfully feels a blush creeping up his face, “So how exactly are you going to tune into a radio station across the ocean?”</p><p class="p1">The scientist concedes him the little victory of pretending to not acknowledge his very unsubtle change fo subject. He just turns back to the mess of scrap metal that by all accounts should not have made any sort of sense, and sets himself back to work, “With science, of course.”</p><p class="p1">He connects a couple of wires, and Jon hears a distinct hissing sound as they touch. Of course. He downs his coffee with a quick gulp, grimacing at the bitterness of it, before making his way back to his office, leaving Carlos to thinker his way through the morning with a light wave as he passes.</p><p class="p1">And thinker is what he apparently did. By the time Jon makes his way back to the break room for his lunch (a reheated plate of pasta that was <em>not</em> <em>at all</em> depressing, thank you very much) Carlos has what can be more confidently identified as a radio sitting in front of him on the table. Some extra wires and tubes are poking out of it, the sort that you wouldn’t exactly expect to find on a radio, of all things, but Jon is impressed nevertheless. </p><p class="p1">The scientist himself looks more troubled than he had left him as, his hair now pulled up in a mess of a bun in a poor attempt at keeping it away from his face, and his fingertips are blackened with God only knows what. There seems to be a certain frantic air about him, and it doesn’t take mind reading superpowers to guess it has something to do with his now long-dead phone, and the fact that he hasn’t been able to contact his home town for days now.</p><p class="p1">“Oh hey,” he greets him after a few moments during which Jon just stares at his creation in amazement. He pulls a few knobs and fixes a couple of tubes and a low buzzing sound starts playing from the radio speakers, drawing a soft, satisfied smile on Carlos’s face, “I swear I’ll clean everything up when I’m done, I’m just <em>so </em>close.”</p><p class="p1">Jon murmurs something about <em>sure, no problem</em>, and quietly settles himself against the counter once again, lunch soon forgotten in favour of witnessing Carlos’s triumph first hand. He has heard so much about this Night Vale of his recently, nothing that ever seems to make the slightest sense- if Carlos now has a way to tune in on its everyday life with just a switch he’d love nothing more than to listen in.</p><p class="p1">Soon enough, Daisy trails into the room, the only one of the three of them that still seemed to feel some sort of hunger (Jon only eats out of a sense of obligation towards a certain someone who always pushed him to eat before and he now feels like he owes him that much, but he would never admit it) and she, too, stops in her tracks to watch Carlos’s handiwork.</p><p class="p1">“Wow, did you manage to match the radio frequency?” she asks conversationally, leaning closer to the desk than Jon himself would be comfortable with, as if the two of them are old pals and this is all completely normal for them. Carlos barely reacts to her presence, head tilted in concentration as he moves the knob up and down, doing something scientific Jon doesn’t have the qualifications to understand, but Daisy doesn’t seem bothered. She pulls out a chair next to him and sits quietly, waiting just like Jon is.</p><p class="p1">It doesn’t take much longer, and soon enough Carlos is fist-bumping the air with a quiet ‘yes!’ as a candid baritone fills the air. He fiddles with the knob a while longer, trying to tune better into the frequency, and finally, after a couple of seconds, Jon can clearly hear the voice of Night Vale for the first time.</p><p class="p1">“You are thirsty. Of course you are. We are all metaphorically thirsty for better things, but you are <em>literally</em> thirsty. Literally thirsty for anything. You could feel your dry lips, swollen and sticking together, their crusted grey edges adorning the pink pain beneath. You lick your lips, feeling better for a moment, but actually worsening the problem. It’s hot, right? Pretty hot and dry, actually. Are those flies? Yes. Those are flies. Are those birds… vultures? Yes. Actual vultures in your home. ‘How did these soaring scavengers get in my home?’ you think. Perhaps you could use some cool, pure, natural and refreshing Fiji Water. Yes, Fiji Water sounds <em>so </em>nice, doesn’t it? But Fiji Water is not who is sponsoring this show. Fiji Water doesn’t even <em>know</em> about this show. Who is sponsoring this show? We cannot tell you. We’re not allowed. Fiji Water is completely unaware of you, too. So sorry, this will not end quickly. So very, very sorry. This has been a word from our sponsor.”</p><p class="p1">The voice then seamlessly goes onto the following segment of the show, which in actuality isn’t any more reassuring than the previous one, and Jon and Daisy are left staring as the radio babbles on with the odd realization that all in all, Carlos might actually be <em>too</em> normal, for someone who lived in a town such as this one.</p><p class="p1">Carlos himself, for his part, dreamily leans his head between his hands, wistfully looking down at the radio with what Jon can only, regretfully, describe as ‘heart eyes’, “He has such a way with words.”</p><p class="p1">He actually <em>sighs</em> at that, like a damsel in some overly cheesy romance fiction, and Daisy properly frowns at him, her mouth set in a confused line. Jon just quietly shakes his head with a smile despite himself and turns back to the sad little meal he still has to heat up. If this Cecil is anything like his show paints him to be, he can’t wait to meet him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Cecil's segment is taken from <a href="https://youtu.be/pcMhG-njjlc?t=924">ep62</a> (the fic is set before ep65, dunno if I already mentioned it)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>get in, loser, we're going pining</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">“Okay boys, put on some shoes, we’re going out.”</p>
<p class="p1">Jon reluctantly tears his gaze away from the moth he’s been watching bump its tiny little moth head against the ceiling lamp for the past half an hour, but he makes no sign of having any intention to follow through with Daisy’s order. Beside him on the couch, Carlos doesn’t even bother stirring, preferring to keep his head tilted back and under his folded lab coat, covering his eyes from the light and the world. He’s wearing a <em>Ghost Hunt UK</em> shirt tonight, and Jon loves and despises its sight in equal measures.</p>
<p class="p1">Daisy sighs from the door, folding her arms against her chest. Under any other circumstance, Jon might have found her threatening, as he usually does, but right now he’s just too apathetic to feel anything but discontentment at having his moth-watching session interrupted, “Guys.”</p>
<p class="p1">Carlos lets out an unhappy sound of inquiry, muffled by his lab coat. Daisy’s frown deepens.</p>
<p class="p1">“Seriously?” she scoffs after another pause of unresponding silence. Her tone is supposed to be pushy on purpose, he knows, to get them both to stand up and do anything but dwell in their own misery, but it makes Jon’s skin itch. For a second, he wishes she would go away, disappear from view, but then that only evokes an image of the Lonely, of Peter, and, of course, of <em>Martin</em>, and he’s back at square one and isn’t that just <em>great</em>, “You’ve been moping the entire afternoon, it’s gotten old.”</p>
<p class="p1">“We haven’t been <em>moping</em>,” Jon mopes. It’s not his fault this day has been awful. He had stumbled across Martin in the corridor, and the leap his heart had felt at seeing him had immediately been squashed when he remembered that Martin didn’t want to see him, had <em>specifically</em> asked him to stop trying to find him, and whatever was left of that useless sack of blood had been through the emotional equivalent of being ripped out of his chest and squeezed like an orange when Martin had promptly turned on his heels and left, leaving Jon alone and confused and <em>aching</em> in the corridor, and <em>fuck</em>, who does Martin even think he is, making such a bloody mess out of him and then just disappearing and leaving him to figure it all out?</p>
<p class="p1">Distantly, he's aware he’s overreacting, but he doesn’t care. It has been a difficult few months, and whatever dignity he might still have he knows it died with the Unknowing. If he feels like self-deprecating, pining, and watching little bugs crawling around the ceiling, safe in the knowledge that there is no supernatural explanation to their confused fluttering, then so bloody be it. His last breakup crisis involved a carousel, for fuck’s sake, he can’t do any worse than that.</p>
<p class="p1">“We kind of are, though, aren’t we?” Carlos points out next to him, reaching up to remove the lab coat from his mournful face. He’s not any better than Jon, dark shadows under his eyes attesting of the fact that he hasn’t been sleeping much, plagued with the need to find Night Vale and get back home to this Cecil of his that he has been mentioning more and more often as days passed without any trace of Helen, and really, aren’t they quite the pair? </p>
<p class="p1">He’s probably worse off than he is. Carlos, that is. At least Jon is pining from across the corridor, and he gets to see Martin in those fleeting moments before he remembers he’s supposed to be self-isolating. Carlos has been alone without any contact with his home town for almost a year, from what he has gathered, and now, being back on the correct plane of existence, he's getting frantic. He doesn’t need to ask to know that if Helen doesn’t show up tomorrow, the tenth day since she has disappeared with the promise of being back, he’s going to start hunting down Night Vale himself. He doesn’t know how he could even begin to try, given that he has no documentation and no real means of travelling across the ocean, not to mention the whole issue of the city being virtually unreachable, but the hard set his jaw has opted to lately as well and the shaking of his voice whenever Night Vale or Cecil are brought up are enough to convince Jon that that won’t stop him.</p>
<p class="p1">He should probably feel alarmed, or at the very least put-out, but he’s boiling in his own pot of misery right now. He’ll have to settle for quiet sympathy.</p>
<p class="p1">Daisy, for her part, seems to have caught up on why, exactly, it is that they’re moping, or at least guessed the reason, because she sighs, looking disappointed, “Well you have two options here,” she holds out both of her hands, palms-up, and moves them up and down as if she’s weighing something only she can see, “Either you stay here and pout about how sad you are all night and achieve nothing, or-“ one of the two hands lifts higher than the other, and she cocks an eyebrow. Jon is not impressed, while Carlos is still too busy staring off into space to pay her any mind, “We go out for some drink and work through your feelings more productively.”</p>
<p class="p1">It’s Jon’s turn to raise an eyebrow, “Are you suggesting we drink our problems away?”</p>
<p class="p1">Daisy shrugs as if she can’t find any flaw in her plan, and before Jon can point out that it’s ridiculous, it won’t solve anything, and on top of it all he’s a sloppy drunk, Carlos cuts in, his voice oddly devoid of any sort of emotion- positive emotions at least, “Alcohol poisoning might be preferable.”</p>
<p class="p1">Well, he can’t exactly argue with that logic. There’s a beat of silence, where the two of them just keep on <em>moping</em>, if that truly is what they’re doing, while Daisy just stands there with that wolfish grin of hers, knowing she’s got them. He sighs.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’ll grab my coat.”</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1">He isn’t sure what exactly Daisy had planned to achieve by herding them out of the archives and down the street to the closest and less crowded pub London had to offer, but apparently having them move from sulking on the couch to sulking in a booth wasn’t it. It’s just the four of them once again, as it has always been since Carlos has shown up, and the knowledge that Martin couldn’t be convinced to come along with them, even for just a few minutes, does nothing to improve Jon’s mood.</p>
<p class="p1">Okay, maybe he <em>is</em> moping. What about it? The man he’s in love with- and yeah, there is no doubt in that at this point, he’s far too gone for it to be a simple feeling of affection towards a fellow human being- doesn’t want to speak to him, too busy working with Mr Social Phobia Incarnate, whom for the record he hasn’t seen even <em>once</em> since he woke up from <em>a goddamn coma</em> in which he ended up after one of his friends <em>blew himself up</em>- give him a <em>break</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">“That frown of yours is so deep I could probably open this bottle with it,” Basira cuts in his thoughts with a placid eyebrow rise, motioning with the aforementioned bottle in his general direction. He makes a conscious effort to relax his face, and she gives him a lopsided smile, “What has gotten into you two, anyway? You look miserable.”</p>
<p class="p1">Carlos offers an unhappy grunt as a way of an answer. He has been sliding his own glass back and forth on the table for the past several minutes, Daisy’s attentive eyes tracking its movements as a cat would with a bird, and in a word he just looks defeated, “It’s just… something I don’t want to bother you guys about…”</p>
<p class="p1">He shrugs, before downing the whole glass in one go, quick enough to leave Daisy blinking at the sudden unexpected movement. The fact that he’s for once holding himself back from oversharing is more concerning than anything else.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, you have been bothering yourself with it all day, and it doesn’t seem to have helped in the least,” Daisy points out, motioning for the bartender to refill Carlos’s glass as he speaks. Jon can’t say he’s surprised when after a quick negotiation between the two the bartender just ends up leaving the whole bottle out for them on the table, “Maybe talking will make you feel better?”</p>
<p class="p1">She says this to Carlos, but her gaze eventually moves to Jon, meaningfully. Talking. Right. As if he would ever stoop so low as to go on a lovesick drunken ramble in front of his two coworkers and a man he has known for barely ten days.</p>
<p class="p1">“I second that,” Basira nods in agreement, holding up her still sealed bottle in an invite to make a toast. It takes some increasingly pointed looks and a nudge of her shoe against Jon’s knee, but eventually both him and Carlos begrudgingly raise their own glasses, “To communication and talking through your feelings like well-adjusted adults.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Amen,” Daisy agrees, downing her own glass with a grimace. Carlos follows soon after, hand already reaching for the bottle without a hint of hesitation.</p>
<p class="p1">Well. If that’s the kind of night this is going to be, he might as well join in.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1">“Okay, so a horse walks into a bar, and- and he says ‘I feel used. As a species, even, I feel used,’ and so then the bartender, who is also a horse, ‘cause y’know, this is the Horse District where the horses live when they’re not being used by the humans, that’s a whole thing with horses, that’s- yeah and so the horse bartender says, ‘don’t I know it, buddy!’ and the first horse says ‘I’m not your buddy’, and then he says, ‘man, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. That was awful of me. It’s the anger’-”</p>
<p class="p1">“God, I almost preferred him when he was too busy sulking to talk,” Basira breathes, tightening her grip on Carlos’s left wrist as she slings his arm more snugly over her neck, just in time for the scientist to stumble over thin air with a little giggle. Unfortunately, Daisy isn’t as quick as she is and she almost falls over with Carlos, which only makes him giggle harder before he goes properly boneless in the women’s grasp. Jon looks on with a mix of amusement and concern as the deformed many-limbed creature that are his friends tries to make its way back to the Archives all in one piece.</p>
<p class="p1">“Hey, you guys insisted on going out to drink, this-“ he points to Carlos’s sloppy figure, at his flailing legs, and at his still babbling mouth, “Is entirely your fault.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Huh, so this is the hubris I’ve heard so much about,” Daisy mutters, eyeing the drunk scientist with more interest and curiosity rather than discontentment. That only seems to be reserved to Basira. Unaware of his current predicament, or the fact that one wrong move could send them all sprawling over the concrete, Carlos continues on with his ramble.</p>
<p class="p1">“Did you guys know that horses can sense your energy? Well not actually, they mostly just pick up on your… your body language an’ all that stuff, and people- they make it sound cooler by saying it’s your <em>energy</em>, or whatever, but still, isn’t that weird?” a pause, during which the scientist seems to be fighting against his own urge to embrace the ground, and Daisy and Basira are left muttering and groaning in various degrees of unhappiness at the sudden change of balance, “It’s weird. Weeeeeird. I don’t like it. They shouldn’t do that, it’s not <em>normal</em>, I tell you that. I think it’s pretty rude of them to sense my energy. That’s mine to sense, not theirs. I once knew a girl who studied that sorta thing- Julia, I think her name was- she was an… uh… ethnographer?” was he actually walking on his own terms, Carlos probably would have stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to ponder it over with a chin rub and a pensive expression, but since he’s pretty much being dragged bodily by the two taller women his feet are left dragging behind him, the tips of his shoes catching on the cracks in the concrete, “Something with an E. Etymologist? Et- Ethologist! That’s the word! Anyway she had this horse, and-“</p>
<p class="p1">“Please make him stop,” Basira groans, glancing at Jon almost in desperation, “<em>Please</em>, I’m begging you.”</p>
<p class="p1">Jon just shrugs, good naturally, enjoying watching the two of them manhandle Carlos more than he probably should. He had tried to help, before, just as they were leaving the pub and had realized that the scientist was in no condition to walk, but after his initial attempt at offering his own shoulder for Carlos to lean on it had been made fairly clear that he was too much of a lightweight to be of any help. Carlos had all but collapsed on him, all big smiles and unfocused eyes, and it had taken both Basira and Daisy’s intervention to lift him off of him. So it's for the best that he just stands away from danger.</p>
<p class="p1">What he's doing instead is keeping an eye on the road, and flagging away any passerby that might have the unfortunate curse of stumbling across them, as well as keeping a running commentary on how much all of this is the two women’s fault. As far as he's concerned, had they listened to him they would all be in the Archives with a warm cup of tea in hand, so they really have nobody to blame but themselves.</p>
<p class="p1">“I don’t like horses,” he ignores Basira, preferring to entertain Carlos’s topic of choice, pulling a face, “They’re tall and broad, I wouldn’t trust them around me. Cows are better, much gentler.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I also always confuse them with bears,” the scientist mutters, nonsensically, “You know, because of the Italian? Orso, horse- I sometimes mix them up.”</p>
<p class="p1">“As one does,” Daisy nods, her voice strained under the effort of holding Carlos up in a position that vaguely resembled a person walking upright, if said person had been drawn from memory by an alien who had a very feeble grasp of what classifies as walking. In their chaos, they somehow reach the only traffic light between the pub and the institute, and the two of them all but dump Carlos against it with a sigh, keeping him upright with a hand on his chest and one on his shoulders.</p>
<p class="p1">“Ahh, careful,” he breathes, his head lolling back and forth between his chest and the pole behind him, “I almost died, you know?”</p>
<p class="p1">Basira just fixes him with a withering gaze, still breathing heavily as she leans against his chest to keep both of them upright, “Come on, now, you didn’t drink <em>that</em> much.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Nooo,” the scientist drawls out, shaking his head back and forth. It hits the pole a couple of times, rewarding him with a dull but certain <em>dunk</em> against the metal, and he gives little to no acknowledgement of the fact, “Not that. I mean this,” he motions to his chest and amiably pats Basira’s hand as he goes, “I almost died, and the scars hurt sometimes. I talked about it with your friend, Martin.”</p>
<p class="p1">And just like that, Jon’s mood plummets. He had actually managed to stop thinking about the man, much to Daisy’s delight, but now, just with one mention, it’s like he's back at square one, moping and aching. He truly is too far gone.</p>
<p class="p1">As if on cue, Carlos suddenly sobers up, at the very least emotionally. He lets his head roll back against the pole as he looks up at the sky, obscured by the light pollution of the city, no doubt no match for the clear desert air he must be used to, “That scared Cecil so bad, I could hear him trying not to cry on the radio, while Teddy patched me up- he’s the bowling alley’s owner and so knows first aid, y’know?” he sniffs, and when he looks back at them his eyes as shining, much to Basira and Daisy’s horror, “I miss him so much. I want Cecil back.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Daisy groans, her resigned gaze moving between Carlos, tearing up over his boyfriend, and Jon, looking down at the ground sadly thinking about the man that won’t even allow him to treat him like a friend. What a pair they made, “We had done it, for heaven’s sake, we had made you stop moping and now you go back at it again? Are you serious?”</p>
<p class="p1">“You guys are inconsolable,” Basira agrees, eyes flicking up at the now green street light and grabbing a handful of Carlos’s lab coat as she straightens up, helping him cross the street without causing much of a scene. Carlos still does stumble a little and has to lean on Daisy when his head starts spinning, but all of his previous chattiness is gone, replaced by quiet melancholy. Jon just follows closely behind, both literally and metaphorically. The fresh air of the night is sobering him up, anyway.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1">The rest of the walk back to the Institute is fairly uneventful, apart from a terrifying moment where Carlos stumbles on the stairs and almost has all four of them trip down towards a certain concussion, and in a matter of minutes, they’re back where they started, with the scientist unhappily sprawled on the couch in the break room and Jon sitting next to him, both of them the picture of despair. Daisy makes a clicking sound with her tongue, looking at them with visible disappointment on her face</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, I can’t say I didn’t try,” she shrugs, her eyes moving from Carlos to Jon then back to Carlos again as if waiting for them to suddenly drop the melancholic act and agree that she definitely did and that they totally feel better now that they fueled their own misery with alcohol. Her eyes light up when Carlos lifts himself up from the couch up into a sitting position, not without a certain amount of effort, but she deflates again when all he does is tilting his head back against the back of the couch to stare at the ceiling, mournfully. He’s now exactly where he was just a couple of hours before, only now he’s drunk.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m going to sleep,” Basira announces, a mix of disdain and concern crossing her face as she looks at them over a furrowed brow, “You guys think you can handle yourselves?”</p>
<p class="p1">Carlos makes a disgruntled sound, waving a hand in a half-hearted motion. </p>
<p class="p1">“We’re fine,” Jon helpfully translates, lying through his teeth. Physically speaking, he's mostly sober, but his emotional state is a completely different matter. It’s clear neither Daisy nor Basira believes them, but they let it drop, and quietly make their disappointed exit towards whatever cot or couch they have recently reclaimed as their own, now that they’ve been pretty much stuck living in the Institute.</p>
<p class="p1">Which leaves Jon and Carlos alone, sitting on a dingy and fairly uncomfortable excuse of a bed, both on different degrees of inebriated but on the same level of pining.</p>
<p class="p1">He never thought he’d ever use that word, <em>pining</em>, to describe himself but here we are.</p>
<p class="p1">“Do you…” he starts, clearing his throat awkwardly. It’s painfully silent in the Archives, and his voice sounds almost too loud, and he’s not sure whether to write it off as his inebriated senses being a bit on the sensitive side or Martin and Peter’s loneliness seeping through the building and making it seem bigger and emptier than reasonably possible. What’s sure it that Carlos is evidently not fine, and even though they haven’t known each other long enough to call himself his friend he still cares about him, in a way, “Do you want to talk about it?”</p>
<p class="p1">A warm brown eye cracks open, its pupil wide enough to be concerning in any other situation. He gives Jon a long once-over, and he’s not sure what exactly he’s looking for, but he seems to have found it because a moment later he straightens up, lifting his head to properly meet his gaze. It’s surprisingly unwavering, and Jon idly wonders if the walk back really sobered him that much or if he was exaggerating his own drunkness, for whatever reason, “Have I ever told you how I got trapped?”</p>
<p class="p1">It’s not the reply he had expected, but he’ll take it, “You mentioned something about oak doors, didn’t you?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Something about those, yeah,” Carlos gives him a grim smile, then his eyes narrow with a calculated tilt of his head, “Is there even a point in me telling you? Didn’t you already-“</p>
<p class="p1">He lifts a shaky finger and taps his cheek right under his bloodshot eye, pulling the skin down until the red rim is showing. Jon swallows around the sudden knot in his throat, “I- Sometimes I know things without people telling me, yes, and sometimes I compel information out of people... but, well-“ he stands up with a sigh, making his way to the small kitchen on the other side of the breakroom. It’s pretty hypocritical, for an avatar of the Eye such as himself, but he feels rather uncomfortable under Carlos’s gaze, whenever he gets all intense like he is now, and prefers to have this conversation while not looking directly at him, “There’s something about you and your experiences that is difficult to grasp. I’d say it probably has something to do with Night Vale, how you said the city tends to protect itself and its citizens? I have only gotten little snippets of knowledge on you, and it’s never anything that could be classified as a breakthrough.”</p>
<p class="p1">He reaches for a glass and fills it with water from the sink almost to the brim, and he hears Carlos sigh from the couch behind him. When he speaks again he sounds softer, more comfortable.</p>
<p class="p1">“Good,” he says. Jon reaches for a second glass, but doesn’t fill it all this time, “I don’t have anything to hide, but I don’t like being known like that. Well, unless it’s Cecil, of course. It’s different with him.”</p>
<p class="p1">Jon limits himself to a non-committal hum, balancing the two glasses as he makes his way back to the couch. Carlos is zoning out, looking at a tile on the floor that must be awfully interesting if the intensity of his gaze is anything to go by, but he shakes himself when one of the glasses is presented in front of him, grabbing it with a thanks and drinking from it almost in automatic, “Yeah, you mentioned him having an ability similar to mine.”</p>
<p class="p1">Carlos downs half to the glass before he speaks again, seemingly forgetting about this thread of conversation to go back to the previous one, privacy concern apparently forgotten, “There was… and happenstance, in town, and some of us got stuck in a parallel dimension,” he’s visibly trying to filter himself, to keep himself from going on one of his usual rants to go with the explanation, so much that his voice comes out as oddly calculated, “Cecil was trapped in it by his boss- it’s a long story, don’t make that face, I know- and he got out a while later, meanwhile, I got stuck because I was studying a scientific phenomenon in town, and my teams of scientists couldn’t get me out before everything went down.”</p>
<p class="p1">He pulls a grimace at that, and Jon can already tell he opened a can of worms he hadn’t expected to be so deep. He keeps quiet for the moment, letting Carlos get out whatever he needs to, and just takes a sip of his own water. It’s uncomfortably warm.</p>
<p class="p1">“I was stuck in there for almost a year,” he gets out after a few seconds of silence, his voice alarmingly creaky, and before Jon has time to panic over the possibility of him crying he goes on, progressively more worked up, “It’s the most interesting place I’ve ever been to, I said. I have to get to the bottom of this, I said. Meanwhile, Cecil was back home alone waiting for me and I was just out there in the desert doing <em>science</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">He spits out the word, but it’s clear the venom of it is directed at himself, rather than the discipline. He looks back at Jon, then, his eyes glistening, and offers him a shaky sad smile, “Cecil and I had been together for barely a year before I got trapped, I almost spent more time trapped in an alternate desert dimension than I did with him, and I was too obsessed to stop for a second to even consider it.”</p>
<p class="p1">Suddenly it’s clear what has gotten Carlos so worked out today, and why he looks ready to tear through the distance separating him from Night Vale with his bare hands. Whatever happened to him, and whatever got him trapped into the Desert Otherworld, it’s clear he blames himself for it, and Jon is already reaching out to offer some sort of comfort before he’s even aware he’s doing it.</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m sure he doesn’t blame you for it,” his hand hesitates before landing on Carlos’s shoulder as if terrified he might jump away like a startled animal, but the ache in his chest for this strange, lonely man is stronger than his own fear. Carlos does jump a little at the unexpected touch, but he doesn’t pull away.</p>
<p class="p1">He’s not actually <em>sure</em>, if he’s being honest. He wasn’t lying when he said he doesn’t get snippets and hints of Carlos’s life the same way he does with other people (not that it’s a <em>bad </em>thing), Carlos is more or less as much of a mystery as he was the first glimpse he got of him, out of breath and covered in sand, but one thing really is sure: he has no idea who this Cecil is, but if the stories Carlos tells of him are even half true, he’s absolutely besotted with the guy.</p>
<p class="p1">“But what if he does?” the scientist whispers, his eyes enormous and almost overflowing with tears. He doesn’t seem ashamed of his own emotivity and has no issue meeting Jon’s gaze fiercely, and he would be inclined to write it off as an effect of the alcohol but he’s known him long enough to be able to tell that’s just how Carlos is, “What if he’s tired of waiting for me? He waited a whole year before I even got the courage to tell him how I feel, and I only did that because I almost <em>died</em>, what if he’s fed up with me?”</p>
<p class="p1">The ache in Jon’s chest only intensifies with that. Carlos and Cecil’s lives are so remote from his own he shouldn’t be feeling any sort of connection with them, but he can’t help but read into what Carlos just said, and panic, even if just a little. <em>What if he’s tired of waiting, what if he’s finally fed up?</em></p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>What if he finally realized he’s not worth it, that his personality is too ugly, his temperament too much, and just moved on without him?</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">Through the haze of his own predicament, Carlos seems to sense the shift in Jon’s mood because he leans forward until his head is leaning against Jon’s arm. He’s slightly taller than he is, but is slouched low enough that his hair barely brushes against Jon’s neck, and he gives a full-body shiver nonetheless. He can’t remember the last time someone touched him without meaning him harm, “What if the time we spent apart was too much, and he realized he deserves better than someone who only got around to telling him he loved him after almost losing him?”</p>
<p class="p1">
  <em>Yeah, what if? What if he finally realized there’s no point in waiting for you to make up your mind and start treating him decently, and realized that he’s better off alone, completely on his own, than wait for you?</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m sure that’s not the case,” he croaks out, looking up at the ceiling in a poor attempt at keeping the tears in. What a poor excuse of a human being he is. No wonder Martin preferred to go off with the literal embodiment of asociality and isolation than stand being in the same room as him for another second, “Because if you’re right, then it means I’ll lose whatever hope I have left of my own.”</p>
<p class="p1">The scientist tilts his head up at that, and Jon closes his eyes. He might not have an issue expressing his own emotion in front of others but he certainly does, “Oh…” is the soft sound that escapes him, before pressing his cheek a bit harder into his arm. A facsimile of a hug, “I hit a bit too close to home, didn’t I?”</p>
<p class="p1">“You could say that,” he raises his hand to awkwardly pat Carlos’s hair. It’s surprisingly soft, “’s not your fault.”</p>
<p class="p1">Carlos hums, probably calculating it’s better to just leave it alone, rather than rub any more salt in the wound in a poor attempt at cleaning it, “For what it’s worth,” he says, nudging Jon’s shoe with his own after some carefully calculated aiming, “I don’t think you messed up as much as I did.”</p>
<p class="p1">“You’d be surprised,” he’s not sure if falling into a six-months-long coma after a suicide mission is more of a fuck-up than getting trapped into a parallel dimension in the grand scheme of things, but it certainly looks like both of them made poor life choices. He doesn’t think Cecil blames Carlos for it, not really, and if he lets his mind wander off enough, if he forgets about who he is and what his life is like even for just a second, he might even believe that Martin also doesn’t, “Come on, off to bed with you.”</p>
<p class="p1">The mournful conversation seems to have sobered up Carlos even more than before, so it’s not too much of a struggle getting him to strip out of his lab coat and shoes, and he falls into a mostly organized shape on the couch, happy to pass out and forget about his issues, even if for just a few hours. There’s something tight in the set of his jaw, a kind of determination that Jon already knows will lead him out of the Archives and off on the first flight headed west if Helen doesn’t show up with a certain radio host in tow tomorrow, but, well, that is an issue for tomorrow.</p>
<p class="p1">He’s just about to head out, glasses back in the sink and lab coat folded neatly on a chair, when Carlos reaches out for him, gently grasping the hem of his cardigan, the one he wore not too long ago, “Jon?”</p>
<p class="p1">He stops, one hand on the light switch, and looks down expectantly at his squinted eyes, “Yes?”</p>
<p class="p1">There’s a pause, in which the scientist just looks at him. Jon wonders if that’s how his experiments and data usually feel, faced with the unexpected intensity of those eyes, but it lasts for just a moment, and then Carlos’s features are relaxing, and so is his hand around the soft texture, “It’ll be okay.”</p>
<p class="p1">It’s spoken with such certainty Jon wonders if the tape recorder would have emitted static, had it been recording. It’s also a pretty self-conclusive statement because the scientist doesn’t add anything more, and just rolls on his side, away from Jon. Maybe he was right in feeling like an experiment, maybe this is just the scientific verdict of it.</p>
<p class="p1">Jon flicks the light switch, letting the darkness of the night engulf the room, and heads back to his own poor excuse of a bed. He has never been a man of science, but he might start listening to it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>next chapter is going to be the last one lads! I hope you've liked it so far, and if you'd like to leave me a bit of feedback I'd really love it :')</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">It ends more or less the same way it began. With Jon sitting in his office, wasting away his morning as he stares mournfully at a stack of statements as if they had personally insulted him, and a tape recorder manifesting itself randomly somewhere on one of the dusty shelves. Jon just glances at it, his mouth pulled in a tight line as he narrows his eyes at the ominous whirring of the damned thing, before sweeping his eyes over the room, ready to face whatever new threat the world decided to throw at him today.</p><p class="p1">The tape picks up on some awful static, its buzzing becoming frantic for just a moment, and Jon immediately knows that he has nothing to fear. Relaxing his stance, he lets himself sit back on his chair, idly flicking through the few statements that definitely aren’t supposed to be a substitute for actual food but that he knows they will inevitably be. When the static picks up again and a yellow door appears in the corner of his eye, right where another, older and more average looking door had first appeared ten days ago, he’s not remotely surprised. He just turns on the chair, propping his chin on his hand, and waits patiently for the show to begin. Or, well, to end.</p><p class="p1">The door finally does open, and spindly fingers grip its frame, unfurling a staggeringly headache-inducing figure along with them. The figure smiles, rows upon rows of teeth beaming down at him, and he has enough awareness of his own social manners to nod in acknowledgement. His life is already so goddam weird, being polite to a maze monster doesn’t seem to be that odd of a deal nowadays.</p><p class="p1">“Archivist,” the figure greets him, her voice as grating as usual. There is no music coming from behind her this time, but she seems to have made up for it with the oddest set of jewellery and accessories he has ever laid his eyes on. He hopes his eyes are mistaking him, but it looks like she’s wearing a couple of worms on a string as earrings.</p><p class="p1">“Helen,” he pushes the statements away from himself, and pointedly ignores when something inside him aches in protest, “You’re late.”</p><p class="p1">Helen clicks her tongue. Or at least, she makes a sound that he would assume was produced by a tongue clicking against a palate, but given how many rows of teeth her mouth is currently hosting, he’s not even sure if she has the space necessary to click her tongue or any other similarly shaped appendices. He doesn’t know how the Distortion’s anatomy works, and frankly, he’s not too keen on finding out. Helen makes a sort of clicking sound, and shakes her head, almost fondly, “Oh ye of little faith,” she moves further into the room, limbs unfurling like a many-legged arthropod being awoken from lethargy, and Jon ponders quietly over what happened to his own self-preservation for not finding the sight all that unsettling, “I’m perfectly on time, Archivist. I kept my word, didn’t I?”</p><p class="p1">He’s just about to point out that she’s obviously playing some sort of game, showing up exactly ten days after she disappeared on them, and that whatever she wants in return for her service she’s not going to get it, but before he can even utter a word Helen makes a sweeping gesture towards the yellow door, and a second figure comes out of it, looking as confused as an unsupervised and uninformed tourist in a foreign country would be. Jon’s brain- both the most human part of it, that still reacts to odd external inputs with a decently sizable amount of confusion, and the eldritch part, that is suddenly seized by an intense need to know something that might be just too much on the side of incommensurable- stumbles in its stupor, and he can’t do much but gape at the man that is now standing in his office.</p><p class="p1">He… does not look at all like Jon had imagined him. He would probably fall in the category of nondescript, neither fat nor thin, nor tall nor short (though taller than Jon, if he had to guess), and with short two-toned hair- if it wasn’t for the smattering of tattoos on his arms, more than Jon had ever seen on a single person, and, well, what he’s wearing.</p><p class="p1">From what he had heard from Carlos, and his many rants about Cecil and his low and sonorous voice and the way words would just wrap themselves around his tongue and flow out of his mouth like doves and the many other metaphors and allegories the scientist would pull out whenever he was allowed to go on and on about his boyfriend, Jon had expected someone more, how to put it- presentable. He doesn’t judge, but he had imagined Cecil to look like a John Mulanian 1950s style radio host, all sharp suits and slicked-back hair. What he sees instead, standing before him in blood and flesh and other equally gross biological matters, blinking at him in surprise and confusion, is the human equivalent of an acrylic pour painting. He’s wearing a button-up shirt with a pattern that he’s sure he has seen on a bus seat at some point in his life, or on the floor of an arcade complex, and his bright striped pants are almost enough to take the toll of his frowning and not make him notice that he’s also wearing bunny slippers, but not quite enough.</p><p class="p1">It’s a lot to take in.</p><p class="p1">“Hello?” the man says, breaking Jon out of his reverie, and good lord, he had forgotten how low his voice actually is, that’s just another punch of whiplash all over again. Cecil’s eyes, an odd, dark shade that Jon can’t really seem to place, keep jumping around the room, as if looking for something or someone, and he’s painfully aware that he’s not exactly making a good first impression, just sitting there staring at him and his clothes and his tattoos like the creep he keeps insisting he’s not, “I- I’ve been told that Carlos is here? I’m-“</p><p class="p1">“Cecil,” he finishes for him, before shaking his head and standing up fast enough to knock his chair against the wall behind him. He gives it little mind, rounding the desk to stand before Cecil and Helen, still lounging in the background like some kind of cat up to no good, and yep, he’s definitely taller than Jon, “I mean- sorry, I’m Jon, Carlos is- he told me about you.”</p><p class="p1">Something bright and raw and desperate flashes in Cecil’s eyes- which he can now see are violet, of all things, and he decides at once to just pack that information up and never elaborate it, ever- and he starts writhing his hands in palpable anxiety, “Is Carlos here?” his voice is feeble, almost fragile, and it surprises Jon in its open honesty. He hadn’t expected Cecil’s distress to be written so clearly on his face, what with them being complete strangers and all, but it seems like just mentioning Carlos’s name was enough to break whatever composure he had, “Helen said he would be.”</p><p class="p1">Helen makes a self-satisfied gesture behind the radio host, as if saying, <em>see? I told you I’m playing nice</em>, but Jon pays her very little attention. Whatever her personal agenda in the matter is, he’ll deal with it in another moment.</p><p class="p1">What he’s more concerned with is that while he has been trying to push it back and regain some sort of humanity, however little of it he has left at least, the Watcher inside of him is drawn to Cecil, like a moth to a flame. There is something incommensurably unknowledgeable about Cecil that makes him want to see and seek and ask and know, not unlike how he usually feels for particularly ancient statements, full of history and knowledge, and he’s almost overcome with it. But unlike those statements, which he usually can already get a grasp of, even without needing to read them in their entirety, whatever preview he could have involuntarily and instinctually gotten from Cecil, a passing thought or a tidbit of background knowledge he would have no business knowing, bounces back to him as nothing but white noise. It’s not something he does on purpose, this scouting, so it leaves him more perplexed than anything, but it’s peculiar nonetheless.</p><p class="p1">In the couple of seconds following that question, he blinks at Cecil, and has the sudden realization that he knows absolutely nothing about this man. He cannot tell what he’s thinking, the same way he could with Melanie, and he cannot tell anything of his past, as he could with Daisy, or even his identity, as he could with Carlos. Against any better judgment and moral cue, he probes that vast swirling of knowledge that is whatever his patron forces to feed himself on, and is absolutely delighted to find that he comes up with nothing.</p><p class="p1">Cecil feels like a complete blind spot, and he has absolutely no idea why. </p><p class="p1">It’s exhilarating.</p><p class="p1">“Er- yes, yes, of course, Carlos,” he shakes his head, trying to ignore what just happened, and trying not to let his own curiosity get the best of him lest he start actively seeking out answers, and ignores even more the knowing look Helen shoots him. Whatever is going on with Cecil, she feels it too, and this little factor they have in common will haunt him for ages, he knows it, “He’s, he should be with the others right now, follow me.”</p><p class="p1">If Cecil picks up on his general weirdness he makes no show of it. He just nods, visibly tensing up in anticipation, and lets himself be led out of the office, leaving that cacophony of colours that is Helen behind them. She makes a sound that is halfway between a giggle and a snort as they exit, and Jon just concludes that he is way too underpaid to deal with all of this.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">Jon isn’t sure exactly what kind of person Cecil is, and his proximity is doing nothing to answer that question. There’s something deeply and disturbingly supernatural about him, that much is sure, or else he wouldn’t be having the issue of asking himself that in the first place. He doesn’t know what he’s doing to protect himself against his Knowing, or if he’s even aware of it, but he’s not going to complain. He has been living these past few months in constant anxiety, terrified to accidentally let his monstrosity get the best of him and seek out whatever little crook and corner of hidden knowledge it likes to feed so much on- he’s not going to push his luck and actually try to break through a wall if he is so lucky to actually find one. Whatever Cecil is doing, or whatever he is, it’s strong enough to keep the Eye at bay just for now, and good riddance to that.</p><p class="p1">On the other hand, Cecil is more difficult to frame than Carlos originally was. Carlos is all bubbly energy and chatter and easy going-ness, and he makes no issue to show himself for who he is. Cecil, on the other hand, is now just walking quietly side by side with him, nothing but his peculiar style betraying his personality, and Jon is suddenly aware that he has absolutely no idea who this man is or what he might be able to do. It’s certainly something.</p><p class="p1">He can’t blame it all on Cecil, though, that much would be unfair. It’s obvious that he’s pent up with anxiety, tense as a violin string as they quietly make their way to the bullpen, and Jon has to assume that even the most extroverted and easy-going man on the planet would be even a little bit flabbergasted if unable to see his significant other for almost a year. He tries not to pry, but he’s fairly certain he sees the effects of that separation on him, too, in the dark circle under his purple (purple! What the hell!) eyes and the sharpness in his cheekbones that is just on the side of uncanny.</p><p class="p1">Cecil looks down at him, and Jon bristles, “Sorry, I’m just- Carlos mentioned you quite a lot, it’s odd to finally meet you.”</p><p class="p1">“He did?” Cecil’s mouth pulls itself into a lazy grin and Jon breathes in a sigh of relief. Of course. Carlos is more concerned with libraries and pens than he is by the throat of madness incarnate herself, it would make sense for Cecil to see nothing unusual or concerning in a total stranger gawking at him like an owl, “I’m surprised, usually I’m the blabbermouth between the two of us.”</p><p class="p1">Oh is he, now?</p><p class="p1">“Oh are you, now?” Jon asks against better judgment. He might not know anything about Cecil, but he can’t help being drawn to him and his weirdness nonetheless. He’d say it’s a matter of charisma and not the work of a supernatural force, but honestly who is he to say.</p><p class="p1">“Well, unless we count science, of course,” the radio host lifts his arms in a shrug, and Jon is fairly certain that the tattoos on his arms are not the same he had just a few moments ago, but the motion is too quick to be fully sure, and he’s definitely not going to grab his arm and lift it up to check. He has his limits, “When he goes on about science he ends up talking a hundred miles a minute. It’s one of his most attractive features.”</p><p class="p1">“I cannot deny nor confirm that,” he settles on saying, just as they round the corner to the offices.</p><p class="p1">Basira looks up from her desk when she sees them come in and does a double-take, no doubt as taken aback by Cecil’s general idiosyncrasies as he had been. Daisy, too, stops what she’s doing at her desk- namely making paper frogs, but that’s beside the point- but instead of frowning at him in confusion the same way Basira is she just looks back to Carlos, hunched over a pile of books he’s neatly organizing on his desk not too far away. He’s wearing the same clothes he first manifested in Jon’s office in, and if the way he’s carefully staking the library books is any indication he’s probably getting ready to leave for good, and hunt down Night Vale himself, a mournful expression on his face that even the strong set of his jaw can’t hide.</p><p class="p1">Cecil, on his part, has stopped in his tracks and is now frozen halfway into the room, his wide eyes settling on the scientist as if unsure if what he’s seeing is actually there. He isn’t moving at all, Jon’s fairly sure he isn’t breathing either, as if terrified to startle an easily scared wild animal, and however much the whole deal is screaming romantic fiction he has had quite enough pining of his own, and isn’t up to deal with somebody else’s. Taking a step around the frozen radio host, coming to stand beside a bewildered Basira, he softly calls out for the scientist, just enough to be heard, and then Carlos finally looks up, and he meets Cecil’s eyes, and it’s so much more than a cliche romance moment.</p><p class="p1">For a moment nothing happens, both of them frozen in their spots like deers in the headlights. He doesn’t know Cecil, so he can’t easily read his expression and gauge his feelings, but if he’s anything like his boyfriend he’s currently sporting the most starstruck expression, raw hope and affection flashing in his eyes over a mask of disbelief and anxiety. Then, like a spell, the dam breaks. He’s not sure which one of them moves first but they’re suddenly sprinting across the small distance that still separates them, knocking aside a chair and making a couple of pens roll down Carlos’s desk with the sudden movement, but it doesn't matter because they’re finally in each other’s arms again. </p><p class="p1">Carlos all but collapses against Cecil, arms wrung tight around his neck and body pressed as close as humanly possible, and Cecil stumbles a bit with the force of his embrace, but he wastes no time winding his own arms around Carlos’s back, fisting handfuls of his lab coat and pressing his face into his neck, and at some point Jon is kneeling aware that he should look away and focus on something else, that what he’s unwillingly prying on is a very private and intimate moment, but he knows nonetheless that those two aren’t going to let each out of the other’s sight for a long while.</p><p class="p1">“Am I the only one who was expecting someone… a little different?” Daisy whispers as she slides around the embracing couple towards Jon and Basira, the warmth of her expression betraying the scepticism of her question. </p><p class="p1">Carlos is saying something to Cecil, muffled against his chest as they refuse to let go of each other just yet, and Cecil is murmuring back in earnest, and it’s all so very intimate Jon stumbles to reply to Daisy, and offer them some of his aimless banter as a cover, “What were you expecting?”</p><p class="p1">Basira cuts in, rubbing her chin in thought as the two embracing men shift on their feet, only ending up holding each other even tighter than before, “Not a Stephen Merchant look-alike, that’s for sure,” Jon almost chokes on his own saliva at that, but Basira only barrels forward, clearing her throat enough to attract Cecil and Carlos’s attention, “Hey, uh, sorry for the personal question, but what are you an avatar of, exactly?”</p><p class="p1">Ah, so he isn’t the only one who felt a weird hunch about Cecil. Right.</p><p class="p1">The radio host doesn’t even bother disentangling himself from the vine plant that used to be his boyfriend, and simply turns his face towards her, frowning over a crown of salt and pepper streaks, “I’ve… never watched the show…”</p><p class="p1">Daisy quietly hides her mouth in her palm to hide a grin, while Jon forces his face into a mask of neutrality. Basira, goes through a speed-run of the five stages of grief, before settling on a quiet nod, “Right, of course.”</p><p class="p1">Carlos seems to realize that there are other people in the room with them, and that the world around him doesn’t end with the man in his arms, because he pulls slightly back from Cecil, blinking teary-eyed up at the three of them. He’s still holding a fistful of Cecil’s ridiculous looking shirt, and both of them are refusing to move even slightly away from each other, but he still smiles at them, genuine and happy and finally carefree, “Helen managed to find him, huh?”</p><p class="p1">“That she did,” Jon nods, unable to suppress his own smile. Cecil’s eyes, too, are a bit glossy with tears, and he feels a warm surge of affection towards these two people he knows so little about, “It’s probably going to come back and bite us later, isn’t it?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, definitely,” Basira agrees, though she looks somewhat softer than before. Tearful romantic reunions can break through even the most stony-faced, it would seem.</p><p class="p1">“I mean, for what it’s worth, she was delightful,” Cecil quips in, and Jon can pinpoint the moment when both Basira and Daisy realize just how deep his voice is in person too because they both startle, surprised, “Lovely woman, love her style. And her corridors? Such a smart way of transportation.”</p><p class="p1">“Have you seen her fingers?” Carlos tugs at Cecil’s shirt, equally entertained by who, by all means, could easily be the devil incarnate on a bad day, “So anatomically interesting!”</p><p class="p1"> “I did! I thought you would find them interesting, pudding.”</p><p class="p1">Carlos all but melts at the pet name, his smile widening in a proper beam he has never seen on his face before, and Jon is suddenly made aware, by a certain external power, that he should probably look away before the scientist is standing on the tip of his toes, kissing the side of Cecil’s jaw, and it’s now his turn to swoon.</p><p class="p1">“Alright,” Basira cuts in, her previously warm expression gone and replaced by one of politely contained disgust, “We should probably get both of you going. I don’t even think having you here is a good idea when Helen is involved.”</p><p class="p1">“Or,” Daisy cuts in, her eyes sparkling with something akin to amusement as she looks at the still embracing couple and then at Basira, “We could get a cup of tea and get to know each other a bit better, don’t you think?” Basira does something odd with her eyes, shooting Daisy a look that can certainly be described as interesting, and Daisy only persists, “After all, Cecil just got here, I’m sure travelling through the Distortion left him knackered.”</p><p class="p1">Jon doesn’t really know why Daisy seems to have decided to push Basira’s buttons all of a sudden, but he’s not surprised when the two women proceed to have an increasingly amusing staring contest right there and then, shooting each other meaningful glances, while Carlos and Cecil just look on, the former amused and the latter confused, but intrigued. </p><p class="p1">“I guess a cup of tea can’t hurt.”</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">The tea did not, as a matter of fact, hurt. It was quite decent- although not as good as Martin’s, but he has to make do nowadays- and it sure offered a chance for the five of them to just sit and relax, and act like they’re just normal people having a normal meeting during their normal daily life. It left Jon with a bitter taste on his tongue, and he’s not sure whether it’s because of the tea or the melancholy of the whole situation.</p><p class="p1">What did, actually, hurt was the conversation that accompanied the tea. He’s saying this with as much love as he can manage to express for another fellow human being, but listening to Carlos talk was bad enough as it was, but adding Cecil, a Night Vale native, and an obviously weird person all around, was enough to make a pounding headache grow behind Jon’s eyelids. As he said, he means this in the best way possible, it’s just- the two of them are <em>a lot</em>.</p><p class="p1">After an initial moment of quiet, in which Cecil had looked pensive, almost shy, regarding each of them with polite but contained interest, allowing Jon, Daisy, but particularly Basira to be tricked into thinking that he’s just another average Joe- albeit one with a very weird fashion sense- Cecil had slowly warmed up to the three of them, and soon it was made dashingly obvious that there wasn’t a single sane person between Carlos and Cecil.</p><p class="p1">Said with love, of course.</p><p class="p1">“And then I told him, oh no you don’t, Steve Carlsberg, I’ll have you know that the City Council reviews and approves the official bloodstones each year, and home-made is <em>definitely</em> not fine, thank you very much-“ Cecil is now ranting to an enraptured- but possibly in the worst meaning of the word- Basira, her eyebrows furrowed as if trying to understand a particularly complex math equation that might actually just not have an answer, and Jon rubs a hand over his forehead, trying to will his brain to stop pushing against his skull. The Eye hasn’t come up with anything more conclusive regarding Cecil, every sort of feedback on him keeps coming up blank, and although it’s relieving to not be able to accidentally pry into someone else’s thoughts and memories the sudden blindspot is doing nothing to improve his headache.</p><p class="p1">“Wait, this Steve, is he a relative of yours?” Basira cuts in despite herself, too busy trying to make sense of the general mess that is Cecil to realize how fondly Daisy is looking at her over her crossed arms, wildly entertained by the whole deal.</p><p class="p1">“Brother-in-law, yes, I don’t know if I mentioned, I try not to- anyway then he said-“</p><p class="p1">Off he goes again, and Jon gives up on even pretending to try and follow along to what he’s sure is an amazingly interesting story. He likes Cecil, he really does, if not for his personality for who he is to Carlos, but that doesn’t mean he’s any easier to follow or understand. Carlos himself, on his part, is sitting between Cecil and Jon, his hand safely nestled in one of Cecil’s (the one that isn’t wildly gesticulating, that is) and his thumb keeps rubbing back and forth over it almost on autopilot, a sort of instinctive reaction to the other man’s closeness- but his gaze is affixed on Jon, and his small smile is soft but conspiratorial.</p><p class="p1">“You know, I’ve spoken to this Steve more than once,” he says to Jon, sottovoce, leaning across his seat so that only he can hear him. Not that it would make a difference, the others are too busy with Cecil’s story to notice, “He’s a great guy.”</p><p class="p1">Jon removes his hand and Carlos’s smile only softens when his eyes settle on him. He has always seemed like a kind enough guy from the first moment he saw him, but Cecil’s presence only makes him look more open and relaxed, and it’s enough that Jon can see the palpable difference between the two Carloses, “Doesn’t sound like it, from what Cecil is saying.”</p><p class="p1">“He’s an unreliable narrator,” the scientist simply replies, with the kind of tone that he usually reserves for universal scientific truths, “I don’t know exactly what happened between the two of them, but there are definitely two sides of the coin, here,” Cecil’s voice raises an octave as he recalls something particularly annoying this Steve guy did, and Carlos’s thumb makes a quick little circle on the back Cecil’s hand, and Jon is fairly sure the two are just so attuned to each other’s presence Carlos isn’t remotely aware of what he’s doing, “I just feel kind of sad for the guy, you know? He’s really nice, always cheerful and kind, and Cecil only mentions him on his show to complain about him.”</p><p class="p1">Huh. Right.</p><p class="p1">That’s another parallel between Carlos’s life and his own he really did not need to learn nor unpack right now, but hey. He’ll take any chance he gets to commiserate and self-loathe over what an absolute delight he used to be back when he first started off as the head archivist.</p><p class="p1">He’s kept from trying to formulate any sort of response that isn’t complete self-loathing when Cecil’s voice picks up again, and Carlos turns his attention back to him, looking every bit the besotted man he had seemed to be every time he brought Cecil up these past ten days. Basira seems to have now made it her life mission to put all of her efforts into making sense of Cecil and his stories- either that or she’s seriously enraptured with the guy for no other reason, which he highly doubts- while Daisy has leaned back in her chair, cradling her cup of tea on her knees and nodding along when socially necessary, preferring to just keep her eyes closed and ease into the general chitter-chatter. Letting his forehead relax, Jon follows along- hopefully the headache will subside that way.</p><p class="p1">They keep the little impromptu tea party going for a while longer, letting the conversation trail off into more neutral territories, from old archive stories to tales of eternal scouts to the unfortunate frequency of eldritch bosses, apparently, but soon it becomes clear that their conversation is coming to an end, and so is Carlos’s stay with them. It settles over the room gently, and before he knows it Carlos is standing up, and so are all of them- and then Carlos is laughing, because apparently he had stood up to make some sort of speech, and he hadn’t expected them to follow along, and there’s a couple of seconds of awkward shuffling of chairs and people before it dissolves again in soft amusement.</p><p class="p1">“Okay, okay, never mind, I guess,” Carlos waves at Daisy, who hasn’t needed a second cue and had immediately sat back down the first time the scientist had motioned her to, and she just tilts her long-empty cup of tea up at him, in a mock gesture of a toast, “I just- I just wanted to thank you guys, properly,” the scientist sobers up all of a sudden, looking each of them in the eye with an unexpected amount of seriousness, and Jon is suddenly overcome with the realization that this is it. This is the last he’ll even see of Carlos, and of Cecil, “I don’t know what I would have done without your help, without you offering me a place to stay, and a way back home, and of course Helen-“</p><p class="p1">“Oh, trust me,” Basira cuts in, with a small, but not unhappy shake of her head, “You don’t want to be thankful for that.”</p><p class="p1">“My point is,” Carlos continues, with a little nod to the woman, and it’s so, so odd to see him be so official and proper when just last night he was drunk rambling about horses and whatnot, “Thank you. So much.”</p><p class="p1">He smiles, soft and relaxed and finally happy, and that’s really all there is to him. Despite himself, Jon had still been secretly waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something terrible to happen and reveal itself, for the metaphorical lightning bolt to strike them all and remind them of the dangers out there, but he shouldn’t have. Carlos is just that, Carlos. No ulterior motive, and no supernatural spannung hidden up his sleeve.</p><p class="p1">Of course, it would be too much to say that there’s nothing supernatural going on with him, but he’s content enough that whatever level of paranormal he has had rubbing off onto him it doesn’t seem to want them all dead. Cecil is standing next to Carlos, his eyes ranking over the three of them with the same open gratefulness that his boyfriend is exhibiting, and a ubiquitous tape recorder is whirring along on a nearby cabinet. Jon already knows that when he’ll play it back he will hear nothing but incomprehensible static. Somehow, he doesn’t care.</p><p class="p1">“I’m sure you would have done the same,” he finally says, and that, too, he knows to be true.</p><p class="p1">They don’t hug. They might have, had they been different people with different lives and different backgrounds, but as things are right now Cecil and Carlos don’t even have to guess that touching them would be unwelcome, they seem to get it. Basira isn’t one for touching normally, and merely offers a professional handshake to both men, and an unusually soft smile for Carlos, while Daisy doesn’t manage more than a quick touch of her hand over Carlos’s arm. She’s the most touchy-feely out of the three of them, if you could call her that, and although they don’t talk about it Jon knows how she likes to curl up next to either of them when allowed, never quite touching, as if feeding off their body heat alone, but never anything more than that. The Buried had too much of a lasting impact on her, he feels it too, and anything more than a soft touch or a lingering brush ends up being more of a cause for sensory overload than anything else.</p><p class="p1">Jon, too, isn’t too keen on touching. He wouldn’t describe himself as someone who dislikes touch, necessarily, but he has had one too many brusque encounters with physical violence in the last few years to be entirely comfortable being approached by a strange- but also friendly- hand or arm suddenly raising in his direction, so he prefers to just avoid it. He has had a close call with Martin more than once, when the man had tried to go in for a small pat on his shoulder or even a friendly hug, and he had flinched as if expecting to be struck, and now he almost misses them.</p><p class="p1">So, Carlos doesn’t hug him, and he doesn’t try to hug Carlos. They just nod at each other, resolutely, the only way two people who are never going to see each other ever again can, and before he knows it Carlos is stepping around him, until he’s at his side, oddly enough, and leaning his head towards his shoulder. He taps his cheek against his arm once, just a small touch, a ghost of last night’s half-hug he had given him half inebriated, before straightening up and exiting his bubble of personal space, allowing him to shake Cecil’s hand. It’s better than any hug he could have given him.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you all so much for helping my sweet, kind Carlos,” Cecil says full of emotion as they make their way out of the room, back towards Jon’s office, and the hellscape that is Helen and her corridor, “If there’s something we could ever do to repay you-“</p><p class="p1">“There is, actually,” Basira actually <em>smirks</em>, something Jon has never seen her face do. He didn’t even think her face was capable of making an expression like that. She’s back at her desk, already reaching for one of her books, but her eyes are affixed on the two men, and her finger is pointed at the shorter of them, “Keep that guy away from any more doors. Please.”</p><p class="p1">Cecil <em>giggles</em> at that. It’s a surprisingly high pitched sound, “Oh, I can promise you I will.”</p><p class="p1">On the way back to the office, under Cecil’s growing giddiness at having his boyfriend back, and with their hands swinging back and forth between them as Jon watches on with a regrettably aching stomach, Carlos slows down just outside of Elias’s office. The aching intensifies.</p><p class="p1">The scientist sighs, before turning to face Jon more fully, his gaze surprisingly level, “I don’t suppose it’s a good idea to pop in to say goodbye?”</p><p class="p1">Jon’s eyes inevitably fall on the closed office door. Not a sound can be heard from outside in the dark, unusually humid corridor. He gives a sigh of his own. With Carlos gone, he’ll have nobody else to ache along with, “It’s… Martin's- he’s not, it’s not your fault.”</p><p class="p1">Carlos just nods, and Jon has the distinct feeling that whatever conclusion he has come up to explain Martin’s odd behaviour, it’s not too far off from the truth. He looks down at the hand that is still interlaced with Cecil’s, and when the other man gives a squeeze he follows the length of his arm up to his face, their eyes immediately brightening once they met. It’s the kind of silent communication and unashamedly comfortability that Jon would never admit he envies, badly.</p><p class="p1">“Well, then,” Carlos eventually says, moving again towards Jon’s office, but more surely this time, “I guess you’ll have to say bye to him for me, then.”</p><p class="p1">He gives him a quick smirk, like a teenage girl happy to have set up a date between two friends, and Jon is so busy flustering that he almost misses it when Cecil catches on, his free hand tugging at Carlos’s lab coat sleeve with rapt interest, “Ooooh, is this a love thing? Jon! Why didn’t you say sooner!”</p><p class="p1">“Okay, I believe that’s enough,” Jon pushes past them with a long-suffering sigh, but cannot help a smile when the scientist immediately throws himself into a battle of gossipy whispers with his boyfriend, whose only answer is more and more high pitched ‘mh-hmm!’s and ‘oh that’s so cute’s. Absolutely ridiculous.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">When they get back to Jon’s office, Helen is still there, apparently having not moved at all since they left her. He knows that’s unlikely, and that she probably just heard they coming and decided to play into her general uncanniness more than entirely necessary, but it’s still slightly off-putting. He tries not to let it get to him.</p><p class="p1">“Well,” she drawls out, eyeing Cecil and Carlos in a truly not promising way, “I guess this is it, then?”</p><p class="p1">“I guess it is,” he crosses his hands behind his back, assuming what Martin, Tim and Sasha affectionately liked to refer to as his ‘old man judging a construction site’ pose, and stalks back to his desk, his steps slow and measured, “You’re okay with taking them back in one piece?”</p><p class="p1">Helen cocks her head, seemingly offended, “Of course, Archivist. I’m not going to play games with you, now, am I?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, I would sure hope you aren’t,” he reaches his desk, and places his hands placidly on it, looking the Distortion up and down. It takes him a while to realize he’s unconsciously mimicking Elias, but when he does he drops the act immediately, settling for a wary, but alert look, “Anything happens to them and I’m hunting you down. Understood?”</p><p class="p1">Helen gives him a long, silent look, as if she’s actually considering it. He knows she isn’t, that she has way too much interest in the Archives and the Archivist and what is going to happen to either and both to burn all her bridges now, for something that doesn’t even relate to her at all, but he still pushes to know more, just to see her squirm and wave a hand at him, annoyed.</p><p class="p1">“Fine, fine, I won’t” she reaches for her door, and confidently walks through it. It’s playing very loud elevator music this time, “God, you’re no fun.”</p><p class="p1">Cecil and Carlos just look at him, amused. He’s surprised they haven’t run for the hills yet.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t worry, she’s harmless,” he waves at them, before eyeing the door with a bit more scrutiny, “Most of the times, at least.”</p><p class="p1">Cecil just clicks his tongue, “That’s a shame. I really liked her, was even trying to invite her to the station and leave an interview,” he shrugs, as if this is just another day for him, asking eldritch monsters for interviews and being visibly bummed when they turn out to actually be too dangerous to trust, “Shall we, babe?”</p><p class="p1">Once again, the scientist almost swoons at the pet name, and amiably accepts the arm Cecil is offering him, and don’t they just look like a pair of madmen about to take a jolly good trip into Wonderland, “Why, if you insist, love,” Carlos’s British accent needs some working, he can barely recognize it as such, but Jon still smiles. He’s going to miss the guy. That is, until he turns towards him, and fixes him with a pointed glare, “You. Talk to him. Or I’ll parallel travel all the way here again to knock some sense into you.”</p><p class="p1">Jon properly snorts at that, but gives in, nodding with a smile. If only Martin would <em>let him</em>.</p><p class="p1">“Um, okay, maybe let’s not actually do that?” Cecil tries to interject, evidently concerned, but Carlos shushes him with a quick kiss, and off they go entering the corridor and closing the door behind them with a sure, dull sound. It takes just a few seconds for it to merge back into the wall and away, towards whatever pocket reality Helen keeps her door when not actively using them, but when it finally does it leaves Jon with an empty office, an aching stomach, and a light heart.</p><p class="p1">And a tape recorder still whirring away on his pile of documents.</p><p class="p1">Right.</p><p class="p1">He lets his legs give out under him, and unceremoniously falls onto the chair. He reaches blindly for the first statement his hand can reach, letting his inner Eye seek it out, and squints at the words once it’s under his nose.</p><p class="p1">Right.</p><p class="p1">Where was he?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is it, lads. Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it, and if you did and would like to let me know how you liked it it would really make my day :')</p><p>Cecil's shirt can be found <a href="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/e8/16/e2/e816e2e47afea20c789c518af3c76786.jpg">here</a>, whereas his pants are <a href="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/b8/d3/da/b8d3dabe31a30393157a74dc6149e723.png">here</a>.</p><p>Hope y'all have a good day!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>